The Garden of Earthly Delights
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "She knew she would never caress its soft face or feel its tiny heart flutter under her hand. For a moment, as she stalled in the middle of the vast crowd, she pictured it like it could have been – the three of them, a house by the sea, happiness and quiet laughter and days in bed. She would never know that though and the agony of it made her want to scream." Very A.U. C&J.
1. Part 1 - One

**Author's notes:**

This story has been in my head, in one form or another, for a number of years. It's been written and scrubbed out, enjoyed and abandoned, fretted over and hated too. I always wanted to do THIS kind of story but didn't feel I was able to for a variety of reasons. One is that I don't feel comfortable writing AU stories which are so obviously **AU** and don't really merge with the canon. Another reason is I never felt confident in my ability to pin it all down. I have **Wild Mei Ling** to thank on that front; she's been endlessly encouraging to me. **So for that, this story is dedicated to her and her entertaining feedback.** In terms of the canon, I've done my very best to provide as seamless a merge as possible further down the line but it might be shaky at points. That being said, it's still Clarisse and Joseph and that's what I love most about it.

This story is also an A.U. follow on to my story _**Reason Does not Understand** _ and does feature characters and references from that story. In saying that you don't have to have read that to enjoy this. Some things simply might make more sense or be a little richer.

Please enjoy the story, read, review, criticise, discuss and favourite if you want to. Please just stick with it unless you HATE it. In which case, thank you for trying with it anyway.

 **Disclaimer:** None of the characters in this story belong to me, apart from any evident original characters. I make no monetary gain from this story and do not intend to infringe anyone's creative liscence.

* * *

The summer heat pressed violently against the windows, meaning that escape into the cool, air-conditioned halls was the only real option for finding some relief. The oppressive heat was, in a cliché that always seemed to fit, the perfect accompaniment to the mood in the palace.

She was scribbling furiously, her usually tidy scrawl becoming increasingly erratic as she pushed to complete a letter she wanted to send before the final post left the palace. With a hasty hand, blotting fountain-pen ink all over the document, she signed her name 'H.R.H Clarisse Renaldi' at the bottom of the letter. She sighed with discontentment but folded the document over anyway.

Passing it to Violetta, her secretary, she stood up.

"Shall we Joseph?"

He nodded silently, allowing her to go before him and out into the cool and dark hallway. When finally out of ear-shot and sight of everyone else, she slowed her pace just a little and came to walk beside him.

"Are you alright?"

There was no propriety or formality in his question and, in fact, it was rushed and blunt for very good reason. They had five minutes for an exchange, for her to speak with him the way Clarisse would, and then they would be back in the world of Her Majesty where openness and honesty was not at all an option for her.

"No," she shook her head, "No. I'm so tired."

He nodded, "Let's move some things about. I could-"

"I simply cannot, Joseph," she paused at the top of the stairs and slipped off her very high heels for a moment of comfortable walking.

"Did the king speak with you?"

She scoffed at his question, a little impatiently, "No, he shouted."

He stalled, flexed his fingers, and swallowed his irritation.

"He is angry," she said, "Very angry."

"Clarisse," he reached out his hand to touch her elbow, to stall her quickening progress, "You cannot take responsibility for this."

She faced him for a moment and her features showed her distress, "Joseph, I know that. I do. However it does not take away from the reality of the fact that he somehow holds me responsible."

"You aren't."

She laughed darkly and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, "Tell your king that."

At this point they had reached the conference room. She had a meeting with the envoy from Spain, preceding the trip to Madrid two days from now, and the man had already been waiting an hour.

"Sit behind me," she whispered quietly, "Please. Don't stand at the door."

He touched her shoulder, gripped softly as he tried to convey his assurance, "Of course, Your Majesty."

-0-

To say it had been a trying day was an underwhelming statement in the extreme. Her hands shook, a mixture of exhaustion and emotion, as she fumbled for the bottle of pills hidden at the back of the medicine cabinet. Her unsteady hands unsettled all of the other contents on the lower shelf and they tumbled, rattling and spinning noisily into the sink below.

"Damn," she muttered, setting the bottle aside and returning the other items to their place.

Running the cold tap, she thrust a glass under the flow until it filled and emptying two of the pills out, swallowed them in one vigorous tip of the head. She set the bottle back in the cabinet and shut the little swing door.

Clarisse hated confronting her own reflection, particularly when exhaustion was in abundance and make-up was scarce. She leaned forward and trailed and pulled her fingers across the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. When had she become middle-aged? When had she become the mother of two boys who were staging the biggest coupe in Renaldi history?

Sighing, she turned away. She felt like a tremendous failure when she seen tears in her own eyes. There was nothing but indignity about it.

The night was cooler than the day – which had ended in a fuzz of heated lethargy in the conference room – but she had still thrown open the sashes and doors which led to her balcony. She settled down on the chaise, carelessly discarding the light white cotton robe and taking up the tea she'd ordered before beginning to undress. She adjusted the hem of her nightgown, pulling it down, and swung her legs up. She looked at the file on the table beside the tea but though that, for a moment, if she read another State document she'd be put off reading for the rest of her life.

The thought of solitude was appealing to her now, even though she had so much to do and so much to deal with. The thought of sitting here, waiting for the pills to kick in and carry her off to dreamless sleep, and doing nothing was so much more appealing.

"Mother?"

The sound, so often one to bring her untold joy, felt suddenly very unfair. Her anger momentarily found a home with the footmen who guarded her door but then she remembered that the crown prince had access everywhere he went.

Her son, calm and smooth, opened the double doors to the inner chamber, closing them gently behind himself.

"Pierre," she sat up, pulling on her gown to cover her arms.

"Please mama," he motioned with his hand, "I know you're tired. Don't –"

"Tush," she answered softly, though it was true that she was so very tired, "I always have time for you."

He smiled sadly, "I know you do."

She moved to make room for him at the bottom of the chaise, "Tea? I will ring for some."

"No mama," he tipped his head into his hands and the immediate despair was clear in his hunched shoulders and quiet voice, "Oh mama, I am so very sorry."

When she had first become a mother, she had not known how the joys of her children would be her own, and how their agonies would be hers too. Had she known it, she might have been better prepared for the hurt she shared with him now. It was a private, unnameable hurt which was nonetheless painful for having no shape or form.

"Oh my darling," she pulled him towards her and her first-born gave no fight, "Oh Pierre, oh my boy."

"I am so so sorry," he wept openly now, "I am so sorry."

"Pierre," she took his face in her hands, "You must listen to me. You are not at fault, you are not to apologise for following your heart."

"Mama he hates me," he muttered, "My father hates me."

"Oh no, that is not true," she said, and she really meant it, "Your father loves you. He's simply struggling with your choice."

"He's struggling?" He asked incredulously, "He has his spare, he has Phillippe. Mama it's taken me months to build the courage and he reacts like that, by blaming you. I feel so responsible."

She shook her head, "Darling, it isn't as easy as all that. He simply looks for the first thing to blame it on. He's not really angry at me."

He swiped at his tears angrily, as if ashamed of them, "Mama if I ignore this calling, if I don't join the church, I am throwing away what I believe God has asked of me."

"I know that," she whispered, "I honestly do."

Her son's conviction was perhaps the most startling thing of all. At first, when they had casually discussed it a year ago as they'd strolled through the blooming gardens, she'd thought he'd soon come to realise it was a whim. When a year had passed and he spoke of it with passion and desperation she suddenly realised it was not at all a passing phase. Initially she had been reluctant to think it was what her son wanted at all but when he spoke about it, it was as if he'd already studied and been ordained; there was a peace in him she'd never known before. To deny him that would have been the most selfish act she could imagine on the part of a mother.

But Rupert's reaction, as they had expected, had not been a pleasant one. For two weeks now there had been only fighting and screaming and vile accusations passed about.

"He needs time to adjust," she finally placated, despising the lack of commitment in her own voice.

"It's Phillippe too," he whispered, "I've put Phillippe in terrible position."

"He will come round," she said gently, "I promise."

Standing up she went towards the large settee, where she rarely sat herself, and took the fluffy throw that rested there. She unfurled it and threw it across the plump cushions.

"Come on," she held out her hand, "Stay with me tonight. Things always look better in the morning."

He kicked off his shoes, "Mama, I have to do this."

"I know darling," she settled on the settee across from his, watching as he lay down and pulled the throw over himself.

"Even if this can't ever be repaired," he said quietly, "I am going to do it. For the time being, I need to get away from here. I'm going to Florence to stay with Alexi."

"Yes," she felt the lull of the pills claim her, robbing her of coherency to react to such a sore statement, "It will be alright."

 **-0-**

The following morning, having struggled to sleep, Joseph claimed an hour on the treadmill, a small joy in a palace full of misery. As he ran and went nowhere, he replayed his conversation with her over and over again and found himself coming across the same solution from whatever angle he examined it. She could not fix, could not repair, the ragged tear which Pierre had made in the Renaldi plans, but she could gather her strength to at least face it.

Slamming his hand onto the stop button, he stepped off and headed for the shower.

When finished, he was ten minutes early for his morning ride with her. A tradition spanning his entire time at the palace, he could have passed the duty of taking her out every morning – which had decreased over time to three or four times a week – to one of his subordinates. However it was a task, like all others, that it would be unpleasant to relinquish.

She emerged from her chamber, later than ordinarily, and had hidden her eyes behind sunglasses.

He bowed low, "Good morning Your Majesty."

"Joseph," she moved away, "Good morning."

The stable boy was already waiting, holding the reins of both their mounts in his nervous hands. Joseph had eventually bought his own horse – after borrowing the king's in his first year here – and he was proud of the beast, prouder than he was of his Jaguar or his bike. It was a fierce black Andalusian stallion, pawing at the ground impatiently, and he'd named him Guerra.

He first helped her mount her horse – now that the stable boy didn't even try to offer before Joe himself would excuse his attempts – and ensured she was settled in the saddle before climbing onto his own.

"I want to go for miles today," she said, kicking her disciplined mount to life.

"Whatever pleases you, Your Majesty."

They rode out of the grounds, as was now their not-so-secret routine, and across and up the hills. When first he checked his watch it was seven a.m. and by the time she spoke it was 9.30.

"Pierre was very upset last night," she said, slowing the horse down.

"I imagine so," he nodded, "Did you sleep?"

"Yes," she answered, not looking.

He knew why she avoided his eyes.

"I have an idea."

She was distant from him, but politeness dictated she sound interested, "Oh?"

"You have this State visit in Madrid," he continued, "The official engagements are only going to last three days. I understand you planned to come back. Perhaps it might be an idea to remain? There are four days you could have, to yourself, if you wished."

She laughed a little, "Such an idealist, Joseph."

He bristled a little, but tried again, "I would suggest, Clarisse, you need some time. You're fraught, and short-tempered, if you'll pardon my frankness."

"I always pardon your frankness, isn't that why you get away with so very much?"

Somewhere in her jest, there was bitterness.

"I was merely suggesting," he shrugged, "But if I am irritating you, I'll stop."

"I –" she removed her sunglasses and finally turned her face towards his, "Joseph I am sorry."

"Don't apologise," he said, "I just believe that you're sometimes better placed to remove yourself from situations. He can, at times…"

He stopped himself, stalled his words. Criticising the king never helped her really, in fact it only made it somehow worse. It was a habit he'd become rather fond of but he had to taper it back before he said something he couldn't recover from.

"He can what Joseph? I'll tell you what he can…," she shook her head, "He can make me feel like I've been the worst mother, and wife, in the world. Then he can love me like I'm the most precious thing on earth. He can make me feel like I'll never recover."

"Clarisse…"

"Don't pity me please. You're the last person on earth who doesn't," she said, "That's what I love about you."

At her words, the longing which had grown so much to be a part of him pushed its way to the centre of his focus. In some way or another, they said those words from time to time. Dressed up like players, the three little syllables would masquerade under casual jokes or harmlessly flirty comments, but there was always a pressing meaning behind them.

"I will think about it," she lifted her wrist, checked her watch, "We must go back."

* * *

 **Okay, so nothing too alternative yet. What did you think?**


	2. Part 1 - Two

**Author's note:** Thank you for your reviews and support so far. I am glad you are enjoying it.

* * *

The packing of her things was underway, her stunning new ball gown and outfits being gently wrapped and packed for the journey the following day. Refusing to go with her, blaming her for the crime he felt she'd committed in allowing their son to develop his own beliefs, Rupert had declined his own attendance and insisted she go alone. Sometimes, if she allowed herself to feel it, she was the loneliest King's Consort in the world. And she did feel it. Acutely.

She had tried her very hardest to love Rupert, to build a life from flimsy promises and ignored misgivings. She didn't try any more but she hadn't given up either. She was in the in between, the middle of nothing.

Adolfo, the Butler, knocked on the door as Priscilla stood before her with a selection of dress shoes that all looked so similar she resented the task as an unnecessary one.

"Whichever look comfier," she dismissed, turning to the man, "Yes Adolfo?"

He bowed, "The king bids you a safe trip, Your Majesty, and asks that you represent the country as skilfully, diplomatically, and gracefully as you always do. He says he will speak to you on your return."

For a moment she was stunned into silence, then with a polite but forced smile she asked; "Is that all?"

The look of discomfort which flitted across the butler's face was all the answer she needed, "Yes ma'am."

"Very well," she nodded, "Thank you Adolfo."

Years ago she might have pondered for hours over his lack of affection or consideration, she might have shed tears and thought herself unworthy of him in a way she would never fully know.

Now his cold, indifferent response was merely a mirror of her own.

She had come to accept that at times she would love him, and at times she would hate him, and she would only ever be fond of him. And she would only shed tears over him when he deserved it.

But she would never love Rupert.

"Violetta," she stood up and went towards the desk, where the secretary was filing papers for the trip in a fresh and unused Attache, "How is my schedule for the coming week?"

While it was impossible for her to do this, she liked the charade of it all. The idea of a weekend with nothing to do apart from enjoy a wonderful European city. So she asked Violetta because for just a moment it felt good to pretend.

Violetta didn't even need to look, "Relatively light. Your return from Madrid has to be accommodated for, then it's the weekend so the schedule is somewhat calmer."

"So efficient," she commented genuinely, "There is nothing, then, which cannot wait?"

"Nothing ma'am."

She was genuinely intrigued that her little fantasy might become a reality.

"Please pass me the staff rota?"

Doing as she was bid, Violetta passed the monthly rota along.

She looked at the staff accompanying her; Joseph, Anton, Violetta and Priscilla. There was a capital 'L' beside Joseph's name. She nearly grumbled with disappointment at the fact he had omitted to tell her this. Childishly, she felt as if he'd built her hopes simply to dash them.

"Joseph has leave scheduled?"

She asked this too quickly, too tinged with disappointment for Violetta not to notice.

"I think he intended to simply remain in Madrid," her secretary answered, not raising her eyes from the papers.

"Ah, I thought I might stay on for the week," she said lightly, returning to the desk, "I imagine then it should be impossible."

"I don't imagine it would be impossible," Violetta said, disappearing as Priscilla appeared again directly in her line of sight and proffered options for jewellery.

"Those ones," she pointed at her favourite strand of pearls, "Can you also include The Rose tiara? And the Von Gerrard one. Don't take the Renaldi – as originally intended – leave it behind. My emerald earrings too please Priscilla."

The maid moved off, nodding as she went.

Violetta spoke again;

"I'm sure, your majesty, it could be accommodated. If you wished to stay, that is."

"Hmm, yes," she looked up, "The Crown Prince left early this morning, will he have arrived in Florence?"

"I think so," Violetta answered, "Would you like me to put you through?"

"No," Clarisse answered, standing again and reaching for the phone, "I am sure he is fine. I shan't pester him. I am going to walk now."

She phoned the Security centre and it rung only twice before a familiarly gruff voice answered, "Your Majesty."

"I would like to walk. Would you meet me at the doors?"

"Of course."

The night was balmy, stretching the heat of the day out as they walked along. They walked in step, hands nearly touching but not quite. The thought had occurred to her that he might have invited her to spend time in Madrid, with no intention of remaining with her, and it was a sore realisation. She knew that she wasn't the best company at the present moment, but it seemed unfair. And then she refused to let the thought ripen any more than it should.

"I see you have leave this week?"

"Mmm," he nodded, ghosting his hand over the petals of the roses which were in bloom, "I intended to stay on in Madrid. I went as far as to ask my friend Maria to freshen up my apartment for me. "

"It's always fascinated me that you keep it," she said quietly, casting him a sideways glance.

His face was unreadable – as his face often was – and for some reason more attractive because of that. She always shunted thoughts like this to someplace she could never retrieve them from, if only for her self-preservation.

"Why?"

She paused for a moment, "I thought you felt at home here."

"I do," he said softly, "But I need an escape route."

It was a cryptic answer that she couldn't bear to dwell on, so she switched tactics.

"I thought on your suggestion," she continued, but she knew she sounded diffident, "However you have leave."

"I'd change it for you," he said quickly, twisting his head to look at her, "And if I can't change it, you can spend my leave with me. We could pretend you'd be happy with Anton as your security on a private trip but that would defeat the purpose of having you relax. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You were supposed to be going home," she stopped walking and reaching out, touched his arm, "I do not want to get in the way of that."

"You've already said it, my home is here," he answered plainly, "Clarisse, you can stay in the hotel room for all I care and not emerge and I won't see you. But take some time to yourself. Give the king some space. Take time to think your next moves through. If Pierre is going to abdicate, you need to be really prepared."

"I think I might be out of moves."

He smiled grimly, "You're a clever woman. You're never out of moves."

"And you will stay with me?"

There was a loaded silence then as she asked a question to which she already knew the answer.

"Yes," they resumed their walking, "After the state function is over I'll send Anton home. What you do with Priscilla and Violetta is your choice."

For a moment she saw the spark of hope in his eyes. She despised that most of all, when she accidentally ignited that long-enduring hope. Hope she sometimes fed knowingly, deriving pleasure from the very act of indulging her most secret desire, and sometimes she starved it because she had to withdraw. Sometimes, such as now, it was entirely unintentional.

And all of the time it was so difficult to resist.

"Yes, you're right," she nudged him gently with her elbow, pushing thoughts of how he might love her aside, "You'll be my tour guide?"

He laughed, "Only if it's a tour of the bars you're after?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of galleries," she answered.

"Well, I am useless," he smiled, turning back to the palace, "Time to retire, Clarisse, we have a busy few days ahead of us."

Sometimes he did this too, when he couldn't bear to be with her anymore. He'd give her a soft, pleading little order which would tell her just how little he could cope with her presence. All at once it was endearing and humiliating.

"Walk me to my suite, please."

He reached out for her hand, bowing low over her fingers, and kissed it softly, "Yes, Clarisse."

 **-0-**

He picked up the phone, catching it just before it rang out. Setting down his gun – which he'd been previously cleaning – he pressed the receiver to his ear.

"Hey," the familiar voice of his friend Andre made him stall in his preparations.

He smiled a little, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Hey, how are you?"

"I'm good," Andre answered, "Gus said you phoned earlier."

"Yeah, it was just to confirm the cars we're taking. I'll wire you the –"

"You don't have to pay, you own part of the company," his friend said shortly, "You could have asked Gus that by the way."

"I know, but I trust you more."

"I even got you the little Genovian flags for the front," his friend laughed, "Oh by the way, Maria wanted me to tell you she bought you new sheets, and you owe her money. You know my wife, she isn't shy. She said the old ones were ugly. Also I hope you don't mind but I've had to hide Lucia's birthday presents in your apartment, she's been prowling. Typical teenager."

Joe laughed, "Tell Maria thanks. That's fine, I'm bringing Lucia's gift with me. How are the kids?"

"They're good," his friend answered, "Looking forward to seeing you."

"I'm not taking leave anymore," he said quickly, "Something's come up. I will though, next month, and I'll make sure I spend at least an entire day with them."

His friend didn't sound surprised, "Joe, you give them everything. You haven't had a proper break for a good few years."

"I know," he sighed, "I just –"

"Listen, at least we'll see you at the State ball, right?"

"Right," he was grateful for his friend's change in conversation, "We'll catch up then."

Lifting the gun as he returned the phone to its cradle, he again began gently cleaning the intricate workings within. It didn't really need it but he did it as a sort of therapy he indulged in anyway.

There was a knock on the door of his quarters, and the voice of Violetta spoke from the other side.

"Twenty-five minutes Joseph," she said brusquely.

"Right," he reassembled the weapon quickly, and loaded it, slipping the safety on.

Twisting, he let it fall gently into the holster snuggled under his arm. Then pulling his blazer on, he lifted his briefcase and headed out.

He met Violetta in the hall.

"How is the queen?"

"She is well."

He liked Violetta because she was both trustworthy and dedicated to her job. She'd replaced Michel following the incident with the press – nearly a decade ago now - and had proven herself time and again as a far better fit for the post of royal secretary.

"She's planning to stay on," she said quietly, "But I suspect you already know that."

"Mmmm," he nodded.

"You'll stay with her? She says I might take leave should I wish."

"Then you should," he said evenly, "It's a rarity that shouldn't be scoffed at."

She eyed him but when he caught her, she straightened her face, "You are right."

"I am," he agreed, coming to a stop at the foyer.

Moving towards the windows, he checked the cars were there and waiting. Felix was packing a final bag into the mini-van, which was parked just behind the limo that would take them to the airport. Setting the curtains back in place, he turned to Violetta and took the final checking form from her.

"She wants you to do it," Violetta said, irritation lacing her voice.

He looked it over, then nodded, "You've checked with the airport?"

"Yes Joseph," she answered, not impatiently, "You have to trust us to do our jobs. Heaven knows yours is work enough."

He laughed dryly, "I do trust you."

"No, you don't," she laughed gently.

He could already hear Clarisse's heels clacking on the marble of the hall ahead, and another set of footsteps, a mix of shuffling and walking – the king. They emerged into the foyer. He'd heard the maids gossiping over the king's curt dismissal of her, delivered by Adolfo, and was surprised that he was there at all. Behind them came Olivia, carrying the queen's light coat.

"I'll walk you to the car," the king said, an implicit instruction for the staff to remain behind.

Without word, she followed. They knew that when she was settled in the car and the king returned to the building, it would be safe to join the convoy. So they stood in a small group. From this angle, Joseph could see the royal couple through the huge windows. The conversation, while clearly icy, was not the roaring fury so often shared between the Renaldis. There was no embrace, no romantic farewells. He wasn't expecting either but had he been in Rupert Renaldi's place, things would have been vastly different.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. Please review if you'd like.**


	3. Part 1 - Three

**Author's note:** Thank you for all of your support and reviews. I am very glad you're enjoying it. The reviewer Clarisse had commented about the oddities of Clarisse's reflection on her marriage. Please stick with it as it's explored further on.

* * *

The Royal Palace in Madrid was only used for official engagements and was not where the royal family were housed, preferring the Zarzuela on the outskirts. While on an official state visit, she'd opted to stay at the Ritz - built to accommodate these frivolous occasions anyway - and Violetta had booked the Royal Suite and another suite for the staff, with a week on either end so Joseph could send Anton ahead to check out the lay of the land. It had at first surprised him, the preparation which was involved in moving even one member of the family from one place to another. No matter the distance, the cost often reflected the paranoia Joseph harboured about assassination and kidnap. At times he even believed the queen's accusation that he was irrational to be a true assessment of his attitude.

He looked over the schedule once more, daring his memory to ingest it, and then setting it down on the table in front of him he reached for his coffee. He watched as she scribbled across a document she was reading, making notes in the margins. He didn't know what it was about but it looked like something she was entirely lost in.

"Stop worrying over me," she said, not lifting her head from the document, "You are watching me like a hawk."

He rustled his fingers over his goatee, "Sorry."

He continued to watch her anyway, admiring and anxious in equal measure. They had only taken off and already she had her work planned out for the short flight.

"Do you want to know what he said? Would it relax you?"

She asked as her eyes fluttered up to his face. He could tell she was genuine but it seemed dreadfully unfair.

He floundered for a moment, "No, it is absolutely none of my business."

He felt like he'd been suddenly found out, and embarrassment coursed through him.

She put her pen down and looked up, a small smile on her face, "Joseph I was only asking."

He shrugged it off, "I know."

"No," she slid the papers away from herself, "I was just...oh I simply don't know. Sorry. Anyway, he suggested I think about what had happened. He also apologised - as Rupert does - while not meaning it at all. And he charmed me."

He nodded, "As he does."

As time wore on he'd become more vocal about his disapproval. Perhaps it wasn't vocalising it as much as it was inferring it - he never said it outright, but he knew he was worse at masking his disapproval than he ever had been. She smiled, a tiny disapproving smile.

"Don't be irritated at me," she said gently.

"I'm not," he conceded, "I just...it's habit, watching you I mean."

"A habit I rather like," she whispered, "He will need to accept it. It isn't as if it means the end of the line. Phillippe will step up to the task and do it well. Perhaps if we all leave him alone, Rupert will have time to reflect."

"Perhaps," he drummed his fingers on the desk, then impulsively shot his fingers out to pull her documents away. Without even looking he chucked them onto the seat beside him. Her face was initially indignant but then she capitulated, smiling instead.

"I assume I am finished for today?" She asked.

"Yes, you are," he smiled, "You are going to be incredibly busy. Why not take advantage of my directive?"

"You always sound so very wise," her tone was one of disapproval, "So convincing."

"Do I really? And here was me thinking I was just threatening."

She laughed, "That too. You always seem to convince me. Ask me what you want, I can see it in your eyes."

He smiled, though it was not without reservation, "I'm worried about you."

"That's hardly new," she said gently, "I think I am just tired. He's under a lot of pressure."

He nodded, "And so are you."

"Yes," she smiled, "But I have four days in Madrid to help me. Rupert drew the short-straw; he has to go to Parliament."

Joe laughed, "Well that is true."

"Where will you take me?"

He had so many things he wanted to say, so many responses – both inappropriate and treacherous - so he merely smiled.

"Let's get the dinners, balls and inanities over, then we'll discuss sight-seeing."

"Bore," she accused, smiling brightly at him.

He wasn't sure if she was genuinely alright – if leaving Genovia and the issues of heritage behind had alleviated her panic – or if she was merely a very talented actress. He looked towards Violetta (head buried in a book) and Olivia (snoozing) and placed his fingers over hers. An entirely innocuous gesture, but one which would invite a terrible scrutiny he could not withstand.

"Clarisse," he leaned towards her, lowering his voice, "Clarisse promise me you're feeling alright."

She rolled her eyes, then smoothed her fingers over the back of his hand, "Must you always accuse me of lying Joseph?"

It was a gentle, soft reproach. She fiddled lightly with the watch at his wrist, not lifting her eyes as she continued.

"I know you care, you care so much. You're the only person in my life I do not lie to. You occupy a particularly unique place."

He didn't quite know how to feel about this revelation.

"I do care," he didn't trust his own voice to deliver the words, "And I don't mean to smother you."

"You don't," she said weakly, "But there ought to be a time when you can just enjoy my company, not panic in it too."

"Alright," he agreed, "Alright. I'll try."

"Thank you," she smiled, "Where will you take me?"

"I know the best tapas restaurant in Madrid," he answered.

She laughed heartily, "Always thinking of your stomach."

"Real appetite before intellectual appetite Your Majesty."

He was delighted to draw that laugh from her again.

 **-0-**

The pull of glamour and gentrification had long since died for her, leaving these occasions empty and inane. With their neighbouring country of Spain though, she found herself looking marginally more forward to it than she typically did. However getting her body to move, from the luxury of the bed, was proving a problem.

She used to feel very young and – as the mother of a twenty and eighteen year old respectively - she still expected to feel young. Napping during the day had become a common occurrence though and even if it were ten minutes, stealing that kind of time just helped her get through to the end without feeling as if she was going to drop into a slump of exhaustion. After three days of touring Spain and eating at banquets and smiling continuously she was almost nearly depleted. An hour had passed this time, and twisted and bundled up in the sheets, she had awoken to a city pulling on the cloak of dusk.

"Your Majesty," the voice, one she both thrilled and recoiled from, said from the other side of the door, "I really am sorry to wake you but I don't think we can leave it any later."

She gathered the impetus to speak, "Joseph, it is perfectly alright. Ask Priscilla to fix my shower."

She lay in the dying light for a few moments more, considering their conversation aboard the plane. They'd gone on to discuss, of all things, their favourite food. It seemed like such a simple conversation but the damning realisation that she couldn't remember Rupert's favourite food led her to realise the simple intimacies of her life she shared with Joseph, and kept from her husband. And the keeping of them was intentional.

Sighing, she hauled herself from the bed and made for the shower.

She would be lying to say she didn't pick this dress as a sort of retribution. It was far more expensive than even she would have usually chosen, it was a little less demure than she would have opted for had she been in Rupert's company and the idea of wearing it independently of him seemed thrilling. In no way was it at all revealing but there was something daring about it nonetheless. She ran her hands over the cream satin, tracing her fingers over the scalloped edge of the halter that – even in her own self-conscious opinion – rested beautifully across her shoulders. The scallop trim of the full skirt and bodice was lined with little black beads, hand-stitched and delicate. It hung to the side of the mirror as her maid readied her, spraying her hair once more so as to ensure the heavy tiara remained in place. It had taken an hour to style her hair to the point where the cumbersome piece wouldn't slip out and already her head was aching.

"It's beautiful Your Majesty," Priscilla smiled, "You will be stunning in it."

"Thank you dear," she slipped into her shoes, "There's nothing better than a new dress to make a girl feel confident."

Priscilla smiled, lifting the ball gown over her head and dropping it easily onto her hips. Clarisse ghosted her hand again over the fine satin of the skirt. When she had been young the thrill of a new gown was incomparable but later in life they had come to be another chore, another trapping of life which she enjoyed less and less with each passing day.

"My gloves please Priscilla," she motioned to the satin evening gloves lying across the dresser, and held out her hands to give the girl access.

When snug on her upper arms, she slipped on the diamond bracelet she so often wore on these occasions. Then finally her engagement and wedding ring went over the gloves for simple practicality.

One last look in the mirror illustrated a vast improvement on the woman who had stood in the same place two hours before – without make up and in a towel – and she allowed herself a smile of pleasure at how much she had managed to do in that small time.

She was not necessarily dreading this State ball, being held to celebrate the cultural and economic ties between Spain and her neighbours, but the thought of following stringent protocols and dancing endlessly with dignitaries was not at all appealing as she stared out of the limo windows into a city awash with life she could not know or experience.

She envied those people at whom she now stared.

"You look beautiful," Joseph said gently, for the second time, as they sped through the city towards the Royal palace.

"Thank you," she smiled, "You've already said."

"It bears saying again," he answered, "Believe me."

She looked him over, an exemplary example of a gentleman, and was amazed by how his gruffness could seem sanitised by the white tie and tails.

"You look very handsome," she said it as if she were sharing a secret.

"Want to know something?"

He leaned towards her, across the seat, and his breath whispered against her ear. This sort of situation was always unfair on her physically and spiritually. The urge to touch him, when it arose, was so powerful that she had to actually brace herself.

"I…yes."

"I hate wearing tails," he whispered, though it wasn't a simple jocular affirmation of something she already knew as much as it was a whispered seduction.

Every time he opened his mouth it felt as if he were sharing a desperate treachery with her. His rumbling voice, unbearably gentle even when infuriated, seemed to appeal to everything in her that was morally weak.

She laughed a little, trying vainly to compose herself, "I thought you were going to share a new revelation."

"Why Clarisse," he affected his best gentrified voice, "That always leads to danger."

"Does it now?"

"Hmm," he nodded, "One must not share their secrets with their queen."

"Musn't one?"

"Oh no," he laughed, "I remain your man of mystery."

She tipped her head towards the window as the palace reared up, torches lining the gravel drive where sleek and expensive cars circled. She sucked in a breath and felt him straighten up beside her.

"You have to remain a mystery," she turned to him.

His face was a mask of nothingness, his body rigid and polite beside her. But his eyes were dark with something she couldn't face.

He smiled darkly, "Don't I know it."

* * *

 **Please review. Thank you.**


	4. Part 1 - Four

**Author's note:** Thank you, so much, for all the reviews. I am really very grateful and I am so glad you are enjoying it. Please keep reading and reviewing.

* * *

She was mingling with the society into which she'd been born, bred and entrusted to. Most of them were related in some way or another; one was the other's cousin, who was an aunt of another. He had once thought the world of wealth was, if not varied, extensive. However he'd quickly come to realise that a little trickle of blood stretched a long way across Europe.

Here, despite what she might say, she belonged; as fine as the precious antiques and just as beautiful. She flitted gracefully from one conversation to another, was passed for dancing between nobles like a fine and expensive curio and proffered her hand for adoring kisses as if it were not the hundredth time that night.

And she was radiant too, while she played out her fine and honed role. Despite himself, despite what he really knew, he let himself think she'd chosen that dress just for him. It was not atypical of her style but nor was it something she'd usually wear. If she had chosen it to please herself, for her delectation and pleasure, then all the better to see her so beautiful. And she was beautiful. But he let himself think it was for him anyway because the way she had looked at him as she had appeared in her dress had suggested that. For just a moment, Clarisse Renaldi had given him the most delicious look of all.

It had never disappeared, his admiration of her. It had only grown in his time at the palace. She was not only the love of his life but she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.

"You're distant Joe," Andre accused from beside him, tilting his head to watch the crowd as they swirled in a melee of satins and silks.

"I'm tired," he turned to his friend, "And unlike you, I'm working."

"If only you'd stuck with us…" Andre said, though it was in jest.

"If only…" he turned to smile at his friend, "You've certainly made some high friends."

"The king of Spain a good man," Andre answered, "I like him. And I like advising him."

"And you like his cheque book?"

"That too," Andre nudged him and smirked, "Isn't that what you like about the Renaldis?"

He ignored his friend's teasing and moved on to safer subjects, "Maria looks lovely."

He motioned towards his friend's wife, gliding as if she belonged perfectly, towards them. Her blue dress swept along the floor behind her and, skirting around the dancers, she took a champagne glass from a passing tray.

"She's loving this," Andre laughed, "This is Maria's idea of heaven. It's not really me but hey, she was crazy with excitement when we got the invitation."

"I think it is if fun if you don't have to do it all the time."

"Do what all the time?" Maria asked, coming to stand beside them.

"This," Joe motioned with his hand to the general surrounding, "Balls, State visits…"

"How would you know?"

"I do it all the time," he answered.

"It's because you don't get to wear these lovely gowns," she flicked his lapel teasingly.

"That's what it is Maria," he answered, "It's not getting to wear gowns that kills me."

She barked a little laugh and sat down in the chair beside him, "These shoes are killing me."

He was too busy watching to answer though as Clarisse left the Duke of Anjou and the group with whom she'd been conversing and turned towards them.

"Maria," Andre said, "You best stand."

"Why?" Maria asked shortly, snapping her head up, "Oh, I see."

"Your Majesty," Joseph bowed, "This is-"

"I remember," she turned to Andre, with a smile of genuine warmth, "Andre. Are you well?"

His friend took her proffered hand and, charming as always, bent to kiss it.

"Your Majesty, I am honoured you remember me. I am very well. Please, allow me to introduce my wife Maria."

Clarisse turned to the other woman, "Maria. Joseph speaks so fondly of you both and I am delighted to make your acquaintance."

"Your Majesty," Maria said, and from her breathlessness Joseph could tell she was genuinely awe struck.

"Joseph," Clarisse took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and leaned towards him, "I have to speak now to the Duke De Armenes and the Duchess. Five minutes?"

He smiled at her and gave a little nod, "Of course ma'am."

She took a gulp of the champagne and sucked in a breath, handed him the glass, then lifted up her skirts and turned.

"Five minutes?"

Andre asked almost as quickly as she was out of ear shot.

"Five minutes," he repeated, watching her go then checking his watch.

"What does that mean?" Andre asked.

"I can't possibly say," Joe smiled, turning to his friend, "Impressed Maria?"

He couldn't help but feel proud of her, despite the fact he has absolutely no right to feel that way. She was both dazzling and intimate, distant and open. It was hard to define what it was but it made her perfect for her role as Queen of Genovia.

"Yeah," Maria nodded, "Did you see her jewellery?"

"I guard that jewellery," he laughed.

"Her engagement ring nearly took my eye out when I kissed her hand," Andre nudged his wife, "Must weight a tonne."

"Buy me one like it and we'll see," Maria joked, eyeing the queen across the ballroom, "God I can see it from here."

"It's from the Renaldi Jewels," Joseph supplied, excluding the fact he hated that particular bauble.

"Life of the rich and titled, huh?"

He laughed with Andre and they bantered a little more over the oddities of court life. Always keeping an eye on the time, he left his friend with thirty seconds to spare in order to make his way across the ballroom.

He stood behind her and let the noble beside her finish his conversation.

"Your Majesty," he bowed lowly.

"Oh Joseph," she turned to him, the dazzle of play-acting in her smile, "You must excuse me gentlemen, but I promised my Head of Security here a dance."

He wondered what the lie would be now and how long they had at this ruse before it occurred to the royals of Europe that Joe was always conveniently celebrating something.

"It's his birthday, you see, and what else could I possibly do?"

He took her in his arms, the familiarity of the action in no way detracting from the jolt of treachery it sent through him. Settled, with intimacy that was not supposed to be there humming between them, they began to waltz.

"Happy faux birthday dear Joseph. Why does that work?"

She asked through a delighted smile.

"Because it appeals to your set that you should stoop to dance with this unworthy rake," he joked.

"It's a sad fact you're right," she shook her head, "They love to see the proletariat enjoy some of their standing. Not too much though."

"God forbid," he twirled her effortlessly, "How are you holding up?"

"Truth?"

"Always," he urged, squeezing her hand just a little tighter.

"My feet are in agony and this tiara's ripping my hair out," she frowned, "But according to you I am beautiful."

"And according to every man in this room. If their eyes are anything to go by."

"You are so smooth," she laughed, "Let's retire soon."

"You can't until the royal family have retired," he reminded her, even though she didn't need it.

"Look at you, remembering my rules better than me," she laughed, allowing him to sweep her around again.

"It's my job," he answered, "Clarisse I love dancing with you. Any time you ask me to be your excuse, I'm delighted."

She tipped her head to the side and smiled, "Sometimes I just ask you…because I rather enjoy it myself."

He squeezed her hand again as the music came to an end.

He bowed and she curtsied and turned away from him, this time heading for another group of nobles as he headed back towards Andre.

Maria was dancing with someone else and his friend was standing by a table, smoking a cigar with a slickness which suggested he'd moved in these circles forever.

"So that's what five minutes means?"

Joe nodded silently, feeling the dread he always did when talk of Clarisse came between them. Andre knew, though Joseph had never once shared it, and it was hard to know his friend had an inkling about the worst aspect of his personality.

"You look miserable," his friend said, "Apart from when you're-"

"Don't," he turned to his friend, "Don't try to work it out. Please."

"Okay," Andre nodded, "Okay. When do you leave?"

"I'm…tomorrow," he lied, because it was easier than explaining.

"Right," his friend touched his shoulder, "Have a cigar. God knows you need one."

"God doesn't want to know me," he sighed, taking one from his friend.

His friend clapped an arm round him, "You could come home."

"No, I couldn't."

* * *

 **Thank you. Please leave a review if you have time.**


	5. Part 1 - Five

Rolling over onto her side she forced herself to waken, disentangling her legs from the warm sheets. She kicked them off to the foot of the bed and lay, staring up at the canopy above her. She slid her hands out and forced herself to feel the satin under her hands, to breathe in the calmness and darkness of the room.

She wondered if Violetta and the other staff had already gone. She had asked Joseph to dismiss them early in the morning, meaning he alone remained. The tentative awareness that it was just them, that she was thrilled by that prospect, occurred to her not for the first time.

He alone remained in the bedroom at the other side of the suite.

She lifted herself out of bed and pulling on her gown, tied it around her waist. She opened the door slowly, peeking into the sitting room as if intruding on her own ground. He was alone, perched on the settee with a map in hand.

"Your Majesty-"

"Clarisse," she corrected.

He looked up, "It's a habit that is hard to shake, _Clarisse_. I took the liberty of ordering you some tea."

She smiled nervily and flittered towards the dining area, where a tray with fine china was set out. She poured herself some tea then carried it over to the sitting area where she settled primly across form him. He set the map aside and crossed his legs.

"Did they leave early?"

"The king needed Genovia One," he answered, "So we sent it earlier than I had imagined. They've all decided to take time off. I think Priscilla was most excited by the thought of leave."

She nodded, "So just us?"

He leaned towards the table and lifted his coffee, "Just us."

There was a strange silence then. She rearranged her night gown and took another sip of her tea.

"Would you like to phone the palace, or the princes?"

She shook her head, guilt invading her. She didn't want to be attached to any one right now and she wanted responsibility for nothing. It pained her that, in that moment, she didn't want to acknowledge the crisis of her eldest son and the anger of her husband. The thought of phoning the palace, acknowledging her life, was one she could not face.

Instead she diverted their conversation, quashing her guilt.

"What have you planned for me?"

He held up the map, "Only if you want to go...but I thought the Museo del Prado."

While she was fluent in Spanish, and knew it with an intimacy that rendered it boring, to hear him speak it was something entirely different. She smiled and knew it was shy.

"Oh?"

"Si," he nodded, "But if you want to spend all day sleeping in the Ritz Royal Suite then I can entertain myself."

She genuinely considered his proposition as one that would mean she wouldn't have to spend all of her time with him. It wasn't that it didn't appeal but that it was dangerously appealing and Clarisse flew from danger, particularly when it involved him.

"No," she went towards the window and peaked out onto the bustling street below. The sun was already strong, "No I'd like to explore."

She could hear the smile in his voice but didn't turn to see it, "Great."

She found it easy to choose a richly tailored white shirt and skirt, with pretty pumps suitable for waking, and a silky golden scarf. She always chose white when dressing casually and she knew it would be painfully warm, so there was no point in carrying a jacket. The last thing, as always, was her jewellery and wedding rings.

He was slipping his gun into its holster as she emerged and proceeded to pull on a black linen blazer, over a tight black t-shirt. She looked him up and down.

"What?"

He asked with a laugh.

"Black? Really?"

"Hey," he slapped his thigh, "These are _blue_ jeans. Ready to go?"

"Yes," she lifted her hand bag.

"Clarisse," he stopped her as she turned to go with a soft hand on her shoulder, "You need sun glasses."

"What?" She suddenly understood, "Oh."

Fishing them from her bag she pressed them on to her face.

"There. Indistinguishable?"

"You'll blend in perfectly. Every inch Madrid," he smiled, "And you need to relax. You need to promise me."

She simply nodded and headed for the door. It was impossible to relax when she was buying into a fantasy that could only have terrible consequences.

* * *

 **So can you guess what's coming? Please leave a review for this abysmally short chapter!**


	6. Part 1 - Six

**Author's Note:** Thank you for your reviews. I am very grateful. Please keep reading, enjoying and reviewing. I don't know if this is believable and feedback would be totally appreciated.

* * *

The Museo del Prado was quieter than he'd imagined it would be and it was a relief to say the least. While he was trying to act relaxed about wandering the hot streets of Madrid with her, he spent the entire time panicking over the dangers to which he was exposing her. No one knew who they were, but as equally no one knew where they were going either or what they were doing. He was breaking every rule he'd ever made and enforced within his disciplined and regimented team. This morning, when he'd dismissed Anton, the other man had looked at him with unmasked concern. He'd known what his boss intended to do, yet he would never have said. Instead Anton boarded the plane and went home and left Joseph to his own stupidity. Because no one ever corrected Joseph.

The majority of tourists were taking advantage of the early morning sun, eating breakfast in the cafes which lined the street, and would not want to come inside to the air-conditioned but nonetheless shadowed halls of the museum so it was quiet and cool and dark.

She was leading them through the first hall, nose in the museum guide, having determined what paintings it was essential they see.

"I think you can take your glasses off now Your Majesty," he said quietly, leaning towards her.

"Don't call me that here," she grumbled, slipping her glasses onto her hair.

"Oh I am sorry," he laughed, " _Clarisse_."

"That's fine _Joseph_ ," she grabbed his hand, in a move so natural it left him breathless, "Come on. This way."

They stalled before Velazquez's 'Las Meninas' and she let out a little 'oh' of excitement. He watched as she took it in, tipping her head from side to side as she examined it.

"Imagine," she said.

"Imagine what?" He leaned towards her.

"Imagine being in this court," she gestured with her hand, "Such absurdity."

"Not much has changed," he said dryly.

"No," she laughed, "I suppose not. I hate posing for paintings. She looks decidedly more pleased."

"I used to walk past this, you know," he said, "I never stopped to look at it."

"Why on earth not?"

"I have a favourite piece," he answered, "And I never understood the absurdity of court life quite like I do now."

"Insider understanding," she kept her eyes still on the painting, "You poor man. Life was much more rigid. For example, one was forbidden to have close friendships with their staff. Courtly rules dictated strict etiquette."

"And has that changed?"

He stepped back and stood behind her, appreciating now why she was so lost in the realism of the piece.

"No," she looked over her shoulder, "But it's a rule I fully disagree with."

He laughed.

"Show me your favourite," she said softly, "Take me on Joseph's tour of the gallery."

"But you know what you want to see."

"No, I'd rather see it through your eyes. You are, after all, a native of this city."

"No I'm not," he corrected softly, nodding towards the next room, "I was once a victim of this city. Or a lover. I wasn't born here."

"No," she let him lead the way, "That's right. You're a farm boy at heart and a fisherman in turns. A lover? Are you in love with Madrid?"

He grinned at her mischievousness, "I used to be. Then I got wise to her."

"Was she bad for you?"

"Very Clarisse," he grinned again, feeling his mood lighten despite how truly deranged the entire thing was.

Despite how much they were playing roles they could never truly fulfill.

They wandered around until noon, chatting quietly and taking pleasure in the work which spanned centuries, when he finally drew her towards his favourite piece.

Hung on a wall alone, it was Bosch's triptych 'The Garden of Earthly Delights'. It was as vivid as it always was, both hellish and delightful in aesthetic turns. He hadn't seen it since he'd last lived in Madrid, and on visits home had flirted with the idea of dropping in just to see it but never had. It spoke too much of his own predicament, too much of his own temptations.

Yet here he stood, with his very own temptation, before it.

"This is my favourite," he said, eyes roaming over the colours of the centre panel.

"Earthly delights," she muttered, eyes wide.

He watched her as she took it in, torn between her wonder and his own desire to view it again. Then, as if in warning, his eyes wandered towards the gruesome depiction of hell on the final panel. The hellscape always disturbed him, always left him feeling dark and uneven.

"it's…I don't know. The centre is beautiful," she tipped her head to the side.

"It's a warning," he smiled, "No such earthly delights without the torments of hell. That's why I like it. It reminds us how dangerous our excesses are."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"I've always believe it," he answered seriously, "But it doesn't mean it ever stopped me."

She shook her head, that little disapproving smile creeping onto her mouth again.

"It's disturbing," she said, eyes on the dark right hand panel, "It's frightening."

"It's not real," he touched her arm, "It's beautiful, and frightening, but it isn't real."

She laughed a little, though he could tell she was afraid of something he couldn't identify.

"Hah," she turned from the painting and spun around, "I'm quite at a loss without a pressing schedule."

"What about some lunch?"

"And wine."

"Not a good idea," he said, smiling to lessen the lack of conviction.

"Hmmm, maybe not."

"We can walk," he continued, leading her towards the exit and the hot city, "To that tapas restaurant I told you about. It's not far from here, in the Malasana district."

She nodded quietly and slipped her glasses on.

The walk took longer than it should, because she stopped to admire and take in the city as it fell into the heat of a blazing afternoon. She stalled to buy a little silver necklace in a jewellers and to admire the architecture of the buildings and when they finally reached the street on which the restaurant was located, it was the middle of the afternoon.

The restaurant was small and cool, and traditional Madrile᷈no in its décor. The proprietor, an old friend, met them at the door. He had cooked in the military, feeding up to two-thousand hungry men at a time with Joseph's battalion amongst them, so owning a little restaurant in the cultural bohemia of Madrid had proven easy for Victor.

"Joseph!" He cried, clapping hard arms around him, "So good. It's been so long. I didn't know you were back," he turned to the waitress at the bar, "A beer! And for the lady?"

"A red wine please," she answered unobtrusively as Joseph threw her an embarrassed smile.

Victor ushered them towards a seat and the other customers seemed not to blink an eye at the typically boisterous host. It seemed, to Joe, that the fact Victor was like this all the time made it much easier for him and Clarisse to appear perfectly ordinary.

He pulled up a chair and offered his hand to Clarisse, "Victor, mademoiselle. Your name?"

"This is Clara, Victor, my friend," Joe interrupted quickly, "Victor is a friend of mine from the army."

The other man didn't even waste a look on Clarisse but thumped a friendly hand onto Joseph's shoulder.

"Joe, it's been too long. Andre was saying you'd be back soon – he was in last week with Maria – but we never see you," he pushed the drinks, a bottle of wine rather than glasses, towards them as the waitress stopped for a moment and deposited a tray, "How's life in Genovia?"

"Busy, good," he said vaguely, "We're really hungry."

"Of course," Victor stood up and went to the bar, returning with menus, "Whatever you want, on the house. You have to promise though that we'll have a proper beer next time you're home."

He laughed, "Of course."

She immediately lifted the menu, scanning it with dark eyes and hiding her face. He could tell from her rigid shoulders and set mouth that she had suddenly lost all of her previous calm.

"If you wish to go, we can," he whispered, aware that while they weren't exactly in close quarters with the other diners, he didn't want them to hear.

"No," she shook her head, "It isn't that."

"Then what?"

"It's…" she shook her head again, "It doesn't matter."

"It does," he said softly, "Please."

"You don't ever come here," she blurted out, lifting the bottle of wine and pouring a sizable glass, "You spend all of your time with…"

"With you," he finished simply, "Yes. With you. Let's not pretend."

"I've asked something of you that is impossible."

"Not impossible," he soaked his nervously dry mouth with a gulp of the wine because this was the closest they'd ever come to having this conversation, "Just difficult."

"I'm sor-"

He was earnest in his pleading as he reached for her hand and leaned across the table to interrupt her, "Don't. Let's enjoy this. Please don't. I can't bear to hear you apologise."

She nodded, her face suddenly blank as if she'd forced all of her emotion away. She squeezed the tips of his fingers.

"Make me laugh," she said softly, "Please."

He grinned, "I'm rubbish at jokes."

She did laugh then, a small and little noise that still spoke of her sadness, "That is true. But you do make me laugh."

"Do I?"

"Mmmm, your social commentary of the boring nobility in particular," she continued.

"I was always dry and sarcastic," he offered, "My mother used to get really irritated at me for it."

She smiled then and her eyes returned to the menu, "What should I get?"

"Everything," he answered lightly.

"I do not have your appetite," she said, "And I doubt the paella would be as good as yours."

"Actually, it's Victor's recipe I stole," he shrugged, "So…"

"You cheat," she said in mock indignation.

They finally settled on a selection of dishes, which were brought out promptly by Victor himself, and enjoyed the meal in the wan, relaxed fashion of people with nothing to do. He enjoyed seeing her like this immensely; with nothing pressing her or demanding her attention.

"I like this place," she said, her finger tracing the rim of her lipstick-stained glass as they sat post-meal, sated and quiet.

He had sat back, removed his jacket and slung it over the chair. From somewhere in the street guitar music was pouring out of a bar. In the dusk Malasana came alive with artists and musicians and market stalls selling antiquated books and things you thought you needed at the time but didn't want the next morning.

"This is where I lived," he said, giving away information he hadn't wanted to.

"Oh?" She smiled, "I can just see you here. I can just imagine you…"

"It is vastly different from any place I've ever known, any life I've ever led. Here, everything is free."

Her shining eyes were sad again and he felt like he was on the wrong foot at every turn.

"You're poetic when you're here," she said softly, "Do you know that?"

"No," he shook his head, "No. It's not about being here."

She was quiet then, looking out into the street as it filled with people who were looking for a night's entertainment.

He signalled to Victor, "Victor, ¿nos trae la cuenta por favor?"

He knew she was watching as he asked for the bill.

Victor laughed jovially and came towards them, "En la casa!"

"No, really we couldn't possible," she suddenly said.

Victor turned to her, "Listen, it's just rude to refuse. Promise me you'll make him come back for a beer, then we're even."

Though she would have been affronted by his friend's tone, she did well to hide it as Victor held out her chair for her and then saw them to the door.

"He's a little rough around the edges," Joseph excused when they were out in the busyness of the street.

"Indeed. But he appears to be kind. I have never met anyone that doesn't like you," she said as they began walking, though where to he wasn't sure.

"That is because I get rid of those who don't," he joked, the booze making him light and fuzzy.

She laughed too, the laugh of a Clarisse who was relaxed, and fell against him, "You're not really an assassin."

"I'm not telling you," he let her lead them both to the centre of the plaza, where a flamenco band had struck up.

"Let's have a coffee," she pointed to a bustling little café set out in the square, "And listen."

He agreed to her edict and that's what they did until the dancers appeared and she looked wistfully on. He found himself staring at her, fully, unabashedly and he could feel lust darkening his eyes and face. She was so lost in her observation she would not have noticed and that in itself was a relief.

"Do you want to dance?"

She simply shook her head and continued to watch the couples swaying rhythmically across the square. His instinct for her, the love he bore, overrode any compunction for morality then. He reached out and grazed her cheek with his fingers, then her hair.

"It isn't fair," she said, barely audible over the painfully beautiful music.

"I know."

* * *

Please leave a review. Thank you.


	7. Part 1 - Seven

**Author's Note:** So, this is where it become very A.U. to my mind. It's all downhill from here!

If you like the trajectory please review. If not, thanks for trying.

* * *

They stayed until night proper, when the heat seemed amplified by the number of bodies and the louder music and raucous and joyful conversation. As they began to wander again, a light shower started, soon to be joined by roaring thunder. What initially was a cooling rain swiftly became a downpour that would soak her through. Thinking quickly, he pulled her into the stone archway of an apartment block only a few from his own.

"You can't stay out in this," he said, pulling up his blazer to shield her from the rain.

"I'm perfectly waterproof," she laughed.

"Still."

"Okay, a bar?"

"Everyone will do that," he peeked out into the street and mid-curse, because he didn't have his keys, an idea occurred to him, "I'm not everyone. Come on, Clarisse."

Pulling her down the two steps and onto the slick street he adjusted to her pace, holding his blazer over her head, and then dipped into the familiar archway of the white stone building. He pulled the iron-grated door open and was met with the dusty smell that had welcomed him home for a number of years. Casting a glance at the mail box, which still read J. Romerro, he led her up the winding staircase. It was only then he realised his own daring. It was a daring born from nothing and nowhere. One minute he had wanted her to be out of the storm, the next moment he was planning something far more.

"Where…"

But as if she knew, her question disappeared into nothing as she followed him up the spiraling staircase, the only noise their footsteps and soft drag of her hand on the wrought-iron banister.

In his hand, her fingers curled more, gripping him.

He stopped at the landing and looked at her. When she did not look away, when she didn't reprimand him, he understood.

Her choice was his choice. But there wasn't really a choice at all.

"Wait here please," he said quietly, suddenly realising how incredibly impossible this situation was, yet forging on anyway.

She fell against the white-wash wall, her face disappearing into the shadow.

 **-0-**

She watched as he knocked on a door, his jeans sticking and wet against his body, his soaked blazer heavy in her hands. She knew precisely where she was and what she was agreeing to.

Through the fug of expensive wine and a day of sheer bliss was a warning so acute that it was hammering in her brain.

Yet she ignored it. And her ignorance was liberating.

"Senor Romerro!"

An older woman, frail and small, emerged from behind the heavy oak door he had stalled outside and rapped his knuckles on.

"Senora Vargas," he said quietly, "Sorry to interrupt you so late. I've ended up dropping in and I wondered..."

"Of course," her eyes shot towards Clarisse, hidden in shadow, but she looked away almost instantly, "I'll get your key."

At this he turned to look at her and she tried, in a gaze she wasn't confident of, to show that she was complicit in this. That she knew what this meant.

And that she was alright with it. That she wanted it.

The woman returned a moment later, brandishing a small set of keys.

"Gracias," he smiled, leaning forward and kissing the older lady on the cheek.

She smiled and said 'charmer', stole a look at his shadowed companion before closing the door, and then left them alone in the silence of the hall. He took her hand, with one that was shaking, and led her to the furthest away door. Pushing the key in with his other hand, determined not to let go of her, he turned it and let the door fall open.

He stepped back and let her walk in.

Then there was nothing else in the world and she was in his arms, where she had always wanted to be, as he kicked the door closed with his foot.

She pressed her lips to his, her body to his. She invited his hands against the buttons of her shirt, where they deftly made quick work of the garment, and allowed her own hands to be more confident than they really were. Backing her up against a table, where there were piles of mail and an empty vase, he lifted her onto the surface as she wrapped her legs around his waist. The vase skittered across the surface and landed with a crash, splintering all over the floor. Unfazed, a jolt of pleasurable horror shot through her when his hands were under her skirt, tracing a path up her thighs. He was pushing the material up to her waste and she found her hands were helping his, without her really realising it.

"No," he pulled back from the heated delirium, "No, not like this."

She was momentarily horrified but he save her, instantly, from her own humiliation.

"The bed," he lifted her from the table, "I want to make love to you."

She'd never known a man – in her limited experience – to consider what might be best for her. She followed him wordlessly through a wide and quiet hallway to the bedroom. It was typical of Joseph, sparse and black and white. The large bed in the middle, with fresh white sheets, was both a symbol of everything she wanted and everything she feared.

At the foot of his bed he pulled her towards him. He peeled her shirt from her rain-slickened skin and she watched it as if she was outwith herself, as if she was watching his lips trace over someone else's body.

"I love you," he whispered against the heat of her skin, turning her fully towards the huge window where the stars blazed in a rain-cleared sky as his lips traced lines against her neck.

"I love you too," she turned in his arms, and kissed him again, "I love you too."

 **-0-**

The silence then was peaceful, in the sea of his bed. Midnight fell upon them, pressing against their bodies as they lay tangled and unclothed. She was outwith herself, floating somewhere above her crimes.

"I love your world," she whispered, pressing her mouth to his chest.

"I hate yours," he said softly, tracing his fingers through her hair.

She laughed at that – a little, hard, bark.

"Thank you," she said plainly, "It's never been like that. I've never…"

He felt momentarily embarrassed by her candor. He couldn't feel proud about something he had wanted as desperately as air but there was still the macho aspect of him that reveled in the praise.

"That's because it's never been you before," he said gently.

She pressed her face to his chest, just over his thrumming heart.

"This is so dangerous."

"Clarisse, stay here with me?"

She couldn't answer, he knew, so she kissed him wordlessly instead. Perhaps that was answer enough.

 **-0-**

In the morning they awoke, bodies sore and depleted and tangled, to a weak early sun. She sat up and he traced the planes of her back with his fingers in the early light. The silence was beautiful and cool, as if the world had decided to quiet itself just for them.

"Can we remain?"

The vagueness of her question offered no period of time, no sense of when this would end.

"I don't…yes," he answered quietly, trying to figure a plan that would allow him to accommodate that for her, for him, "It does mean I'll have to leave. We need things. Food. You need clothes."

She lay back and pulled the sheets over her body, "I-"

"Let's not think about it," he said gently, "Let's just enjoy what's here. Then when we have to go back, we'll talk about it."

It was the only thing he could do to delay the inevitable.

"I am going to hurt you," she said, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes, "And that is the worst knowledge I've ever had."

He scooped her into his arms, sitting against the iron bedstead, "We'll work out something, alright?"

"Yes," she agreed but her voice was fragile, "Alright."

They sat like that for a while longer, until he grew sore with the bars digging into his back. He deposited her back onto the large bed and retrieved his clothing from the floor. Checking his watch, still on his wrist, it was only six a.m. which meant the streets would be quiet and he risked attracting any unwanted attention far less. Pulling his wallet out to check he had money something suddenly occurred to him and chastising himself, he sat on the edge of the bed with the wallet limp between his panicked hands.

"Clarisse, we didn't use any-"

"I wouldn't worry," she said, not without humour as she looked over his shoulder and saw the wallet in his hand, "I am past the stage of babies."

"That old, really?"

She slapped his thigh playfully, "Yes."

"Well you certainly don't look it," he kissed her forehead, his bravado returning, "I'll be back in an hour or so. What do you need?"

"Underwear, clothes," she propped her head up on her hand, "You have common sense."

"I'll get it wrong," he stood up, "Make yourself at home darling."

She said nothing, watching him take a holdall from the wardrobe and go wordlessly from the bedroom. When he reached the door she spoke.

"Oh Joseph?"

"Yes?"

"My make-up and moisturisers. They're all in a bag in the bathroom."

He laughed and closed the door behind himself.

The streets were quiet, the parties of the night before being swept away by the business of the morning. Donning his sunglasses he jumped on a bus and huddled in the back corner, head down.

It wouldn't be hard to slip into the hotel and grab the things he needed and the things she wanted.

The lobby was quiet and, given her status, he didn't have to stop in at reception to collect keys. Instead he took the service stairs, waiting for a butler carrying room service to sweep past him before he came out, and slipped into the suite. The evidence of her tea from the morning before had been cleared, and both beds made. He ruffled each up, pulled pillows out of their place and sheets out of their tight folds. He ran a hot shower in the bathroom and dampened some towels, chucking them in the tub for good measure. Then he collected her make-up bag from the bathroom and her toothbrush, as well as his own toilet bag from the smaller adjoining bathroom.

Going back to the bedroom he suddenly realised how crazy this was. Feeling winded he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around in the dimness of the room. He could still feel her perfect skin under his hands, remember with alien clarity her body yielding to his.

Sitting there, on the edge of the bed, he felt as if he was sitting on the edge of the world. He knew that it could only end in disaster but it was a disaster he'd go willingly into.

He stood again and went towards the dressing room area, realising he didn't know where to begin when retrieving her clothes. The fact was that, no matter how intimately he'd known her, rifling through her things was in no way appealing to him.

He chose things for their practicality and some other things that appealed to him for entirely different reasons, and made sure she had shirts and dresses and skirts enough for a few days. Then he grabbed some of his own things and left as quickly as he could.

Lastly, his daring outweighing his sensibilities, he wrote a note detailing the queen's decision to travel to the coast of Spain for a few nights. She would be gone two days and the account was to remain opened until settled. It was hardly believable but it wouldn't be questioned either. It would be a work of fiction which would be taken for fact. On the envelope, he asked that it be delivered by housekeeping to the reception.

Outside it was busier and he decided to duck into a cab, stopping a block away from the apartment and passing the man many more pesos than needed to cover the cost.

He stopped in at the market shop and bought lots of things they didn't need, as if they were hoarding for a disaster. Which of course, he knew they were. The chain of events had started and, if he'd learned anything in his days in the military, it was that an impending disaster couldn't be halted.

There was a little café he'd frequented when he lived here, curing hangovers and guilt with their coffees and pastry, and he bought a box of pastries and an English tea and a strong black espresso. He stood outside, the holdall slung over his body and the cups in hand, and wondered where this would go. It couldn't go anywhere but that didn't seem to matter.

* * *

Ah, the hardest by far! What do you think?


	8. Part 1 - Eight

**Author's note:** Thank you for all of your encouragement, enthusiasm, kindness and all of those wonderful things. Please keep reading and reviewing.

This chapter has **curse/swear words** and, from this point on, so does the rest of the story. I don't think Joe is above swearing. If it offends you I am very sorry and please don't let it detract from your enjoyment.

* * *

She willed her body out of the warm sheets, her feet padding across the cool tiles of his apartment, to the bathroom. She tried a few doors – one a cupboard and the other a spacious kitchen – before finding an old fashioned bathroom. Fiddling with the taps and realising she'd have to retrieve towels for the cupboard she's previously invaded, she eventually managed to climb into the shower.

The warm water was a welcomed relief against her strained muscles. She let the water pour down on her, only reaching for soap when she realised there was no shampoo to clean her hair. She took longer than she should have, huddled against the slick tiles as memories assaulted her, but eventually she felt able to emerge into the apartment again.

Every time she thought of her husband and her sons she felt bile surge into her throat, choking her, before she told herself she hadn't done anything wrong, that what she was doing was okay, it was alright, she deserved it.

She hadn't been alert enough, attentive enough, to pay attention to the décor or setting last night. The bedroom was wide and airy, with huge glass doors which opened up onto a little iron balcony. The curtains were white cotton – everything was either black or white or dark oak – and they fluttered against the breeze when she pulled the window open and sucked in a breath of fresh air. It was impractical to remain in the towel she'd used, so she opened some of the drawers and found an old dress shirt of his. It was an unstylish cut now, absolutely huge and soft with use, but it would be perfect for wandering around. It stopped mid-thigh as it fell over her head. She examined her skin in the mirror – old and tight, having not been subject to the meticulous care she afforded it every night, she felt puffy and sore. She sighed and turned away from the mirror, refusing to dwell on the dichotomy of feeling flooding her as she looked at her own guilty reflection.

The apartment was, sadly, unremarkable. She'd always imagined it to be so very Joseph – to reflect who he was. There would be music and art and a collection of books that would be fascinating to her but that she wouldn't want to read. Instead it was a place he stopped in, a place he kept in case he had to turn and run.

It was a safe-house.

She gathered the shattered pieces of the vase and dumped them in the trash. She slipped off her engagement and wedding ring guiltily, placing them beside her handbag on the table at the door. She could barely look at them – sparking in the sunlight – and removing them was the only way.

She sunk down onto the sofa and looked around, startling as the lock clicked and she realised how suddenly alone she was.

"It's just me," his voice said gently as he came into view.

She smiled or at least she tried. He stopped when he saw her.

"You suit that," he grinned, setting down the coffee cups and box of pastries.

The grin was both shy and boyish and she wondered what was going through his mind.

"I didn't know what…" she shrugged, "I didn't have any clothes. Or at least none I could wear again."

He looked at her then and she knew he could tell she was petrified. She was trying so hard not to show him but the panic made her voice shatter, made her smile sore.

"Clarisse," he sat down beside her, "I know that this isn't something you ever imagined doing. If we need to stop now, if we need to turn back, that's alright. Clarisse, I won't ask you to torture yourself. I don't want to lose you."

Even though it was easier she couldn't bear to agree to that. She couldn't turn away now because, despite how many rules she was breaking and the risks she was taking, she'd never wanted anything more in her life.

Anyway, he spoke of turning back as if it were actually possible. She wanted to scream at him that they had let that slip away as their bodies slid, lustily and desperately, together.

"Joseph, I am appalled by myself," she said softly, refusing to look at that expectant face, "I am appalled by what I want."

He touched her chin gently, pulling her face towards his, "If you want to stop, we can."

"I don't," she swiped at her eyes angrily but tried to retain some dignity, some shred of self-preservation, "Just don't leave me again with my own mind."

He smiled sadly then and simply pulled her towards him on the couch. She didn't have any words left and neither did he. At least, the words couldn't be spoken yet.

"Alright," he tapped her nose after a while and she knew he was trying to lighten the mood, "I brought you some tea. I don't have a tea cup though."

He unfolded the box with the pastries and offered her one.

"Spain is going to make me fat," she said, eyeing the pastry with the contempt she reserved only for treats.

He laughed and curled her against his body, lifting his own coffee to his mouth, "Eat. Then we'll talk."

"Do we have to talk?"

She asked through a mouthful of pastry.

"We will, eventually," he said softly, genuinely, "Why, what would you rather do?"

She smiled a little, "It's not fit to utter it in the light of day."

"Aha," he set his coffee aside, then turned to her and his eyes were black with desire, "But you can tell me whatever you want."

"I'm not used to-"

"I don't care," his fingers wandered over her thigh and fiddled with the hem of his own shirt, and his voice was low and demanding," I don't care what you're used to. I want you to tell me what you _want_. I want to please you. I want you to cry my name like you did. It's crude but so true that it's the best thing I've ever heard. And if this has to be the only time I hear it, then that's what I want to hear all day."

She was wordless at his bluntness and could say nothing before his mouth covered hers again. They made love on the couch then.

 **-0-**

While he paid worship, he was reminded that the woman writhing underneath him, whispering his name, was someone else's wife. He didn't know if that was what spurred him on more, to cover her mouth and silence anything but her pleasure, but something made him singularly focused on that moment only and the fact that she would never be his too at the same time.

He'd never slept with another man's wife before and his romantic life had all but died a slow death when he'd suddenly found himself in love with his employer. There had been women in between his misery, whose names he wouldn't say and bodies he wouldn't love, and they'd never been enough to push her out of his head.

Hours later they found themselves in bed again, bodies pressed together in sweaty heat. He kissed her shoulder gently, rolling off of her but pulling her flush against him.

"I've always dreamed about this," he murmured.

"I know," she turned to face him, burying her face in his chest, "Me too. You're very good."

"You're very complimentary," he laughed.

"Imagine if we didn't have to go back," she lifted her head, her large eyes staring into his.

He bent to kiss her forehead, "I wouldn't want to. Too much disappointment."

"We could run away," she said gently.

"Oh? Where to?"

"A little reclusive town…by the sea? Where you grew up."

"What would you do?" He asked seriously, allowing himself to get lost in her fantasy.

"Ohhh I don't know," she laughed a little, "Live off you, be your housewife."

"You'd get bored," he said.

"No, no I wouldn't," she looked away, "Sometimes I think about it."

He was shocked to hear she thought of it and quietly pleased too, "Really?"

"Yes, really," she wouldn't look at him, "I do. We would buy a house on the coast, you would work in the town…I would cook you dinner. It's silly-"

"It's not," he interrupted, "Keep talking, please."

"We would have a boat," she continued, "I would read and swim. I'd study maybe. Do things I have always wanted to do."

"It sounds wonderful," he whispered, kissing her forehead again, "Let's do it," he said suddenly, hating himself for saying it, "Let's not go back. Let's drive out of here, let's go and be there and not worry."

"It's not that simple," she said gently, a rebuke that was filled with sadness, "You know it can't be that simple. I have my boys…"

"No," he said into the quiet, "No. I'm sorry."

"But it's okay to dream," she climbed on top of him, her legs straddling his pelvis as she used her hands to balance on his chest, "I like dreaming."

He slid his hands onto her hips, helped her move against him as she rocked quietly back and forth and he became lost in everything that was her again and not the distant, never would be life he so desperately wanted.

There was the sudden sound of the door then, shattering her soft moans, as the locks were turned. Her eyes flew open and she fell off of him and onto the bed.

"Joseph!"

"Shhh," he said quickly, grabbing his holster from the side of the bed, "Don't move," he touched her face softly, "Clarisse it's really important you don't move, or speak, do you understand me?"

She nodded quietly, pulling the sheets up as she leaned against the bars of the bed. He scrambled for his boxers, pulling them on as he simultaneously checked the chamber of the gun. Shutting the door behind himself, he went out into the quiet of the hall and cocked the weapon. There was a man disappearing into the cupboard beside the kitchen, dressed in a blazer. His heart thundered in his chest and the scenarios he imagined were so intense that he thought he'd lost his mind in that moment.

"Who's there?"

"Holy shit!"

Andre stumbled out of the cupboard, carrying a bag of wrapped gifts and throwing his hands up in the air.

"Fuck Joe," he cried, dropping the bag to the floor, "You scared me to death!"

"I scared you to death? Really?"

"Put your gun down," Andre said, "I was just picking up Lucia's gifts, remember?"

"Oh," he lowered his gun, sitting it on the side table beside her handbag and running his hand over his face. They were trembling. In fact, he realised his entire body was shuddering.

His heart was thundering and sweat was gathering on his forehead.

"I thought you'd left," Andre shouted, motioning to the gun, "You need to calm the fuck-"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes lingering on the table and moving from the gun to the handbag. Watching him closely, Joe felt the sudden urge to vomit.

And his friend was looking at him strangely too, realisation dawning on his face.

"You were supposed to go home," his friend murmured, eyes still on the table, clearly processing his lie.

He was focussed on the engagement ring – uniquely large and distinguished – that was discarded beside the expensive leather handbag.

"I-"

"You're in too deep," the anger was gone from his friend's voice, he leaned forward and gripped his shoulder and his tone was warning, "You were supposed to go home."

"Just leave," Joe said blandly, trying to force the emotion from his voice.

Andre nodded, only once, and scooped up the bag of Lucia's birthday gifts. Joe followed him to the door, letting it fall open. He thought his friend would go, a wound left open, but he stopped and turned and Joseph blurted it out.

"Andre please don't tell anyone."

"What do you think I am?"

He was shocked to see sadness on Andre's face.

"I-"

"You have a secret," his friend muttered, "I've always kept your secrets. God knows it won't last long."

Joe closed the door behind his friend and sank against the wall, his heart still thundering against his breast plate.

He walked back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him with his foot. The world, the world they had created in this little apartment, had been shattered and invaded by reality.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes," he went to the window and pulled back the drapes, looking out as the sun fell into the earth and the sky turned violet, "Let's go dancing."

"Who was it?"

"No one," he answered sharply, going to the holdall and pulling out a dress for her, "Get ready. Let's go dancing."

"Joseph I –"

He turned to her, "We have one night left," his voice was angry, "Just please, give in to me."

"I thought I already had," she climbed out of the bed, scooping the sheets round her body, and came towards him.

He resisted the feel of her pressed against him, the feeling of calm that she brought with her as she did so. She wrapped her arm around his waist and the other around his chest and pressed her cheek to his back. Then he gave into her.

"Who was it?"

He considered whether or not he should lie to her. But he had dragged her into this charade; he couldn't well leave her without the script.

"Andre."

"And does he know?"

"Yes."

She paused for a moment, then kissed the dent of his spine, "We can trust him."

"Yes," he said, threading her fingers through his own.

"Right, let's go dancing."

She turned away from him and walked towards the bathroom. He watched her go and fell onto the bed, dipping his head as he resisted, of all things, tears.

 **-0-**

By the time they left it was dark and the neon glow of bars and the twinkling yellow of the street lights dampened the rising feeling of horror in her. Defiantly she wrapped her hand around his and pulled him down the street to the smaller bars and clubs.

"Get us some wine," she whispered, leaning towards him as she stopped in front of an empty table. The bar was wall to wall with people, dancing to contemporary music.

"I've never been in a club," she whispered as he sat down, slipping the bottle and two glasses onto the table.

"Have you ever been seduced when you were very drunk?" He leaned towards her, pouring sizeable glasses for both of them, "I want to seduce you when you're drunk."

"You've already seduced me darling," she drawled, looking towards the floor as it filled up more and more.

"Come on," he stood up after a few more sips, "Come and dance with me. No five minute rule, no propriety, no audience."

He took her hand in his and pulled her, enjoying her feigned reluctance. As promised he didn't waste time on propriety, grabbing her so she was flush against his body and forcing her body to move against his in time to the music.

"This…" he kissed her neck, "Is how I've always wanted to dance with you."

"Then dance with me," she held his hands firm on the jutting bone and curving indents of her hips, "Hold me like you would if I was just the woman you loved."

"You are just the woman I love."

"No I'm not," she whispered against his cheek, "Don't tell me lies."

* * *

 **Please leave a review.**


	9. Part 1 - Nine

**Author's note:** Thank you, as always, for your excellent support! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far and please stick with it.

* * *

The urge of alcohol, propelling their desperation, found them almost losing control on the stairs. There was a heady desperation to their love making this time, a primitive familiarity he felt entitled to. He bent her over the couch, claimed her, and enjoyed her sobs of completion.

When midnight came around again they lay side by side in the island of his bed, sheets hot and quiet. Finally he climbed form the bed and went to the kitchen, allowing her time to compose herself. In the bottle rack there was a Scotch - a gift from Andre when they'd parted ways - and he took that and two crystal glasses to the bedroom. She was wrapped in the sheets, her legs stretched out against the whiteness.

He admired her for a moment from the door and she smiled when she caught him. Here she was, lying in his bed, in his world and yet she was already slipping from him. What they had done – what they were doing – was treason.

"You're embarrassing me," she whimpered, pulling the covers up around her body with a pretty and shy smile.

They were fuzzy with booze – their edges a little more blurred and their inhibitions a little less alert.

"Why?" He came towards her and set the glasses and bottle down on the floor, unsteadily, "You're beautiful."

"I am not," she shook her head and laughed, settling down again amongst the sheets.

"It's a matter of opinion," he sat down on the edge, "And my opinion is all I have. You are here in my bed and I guess that makes me have the strongest opinions."

"I am not like you," she motioned with her hand to his body, "I cannot walk about like that."

"Like what?"

He asked rakishly, enjoying the blush creeping up from her chest to her face. It seemed she blushed a lot when she was with him and it pleased him to see it. He bent and poured sizeable measures into the glasses.

"You know…"

"I don't," he handed her the glass, careful that the golden liquid didn't slosh onto the sheets.

For all his effort it ended up there anyway.

"Naked," she mumbled softly.

"Say that again?"

He laughed at her embarrassment and watched as she took a large gulp from her own glass.

"No I will not," she said, lifting up her glass, "Are you thinking to loosen my tongue?"

He said nothing – none of the things it came to his mind to say – but he smirked suggestively anyway.

He pulled the sheets away from her weakly battling fingers, and traced his thumb across her abdomen. Bending he kissed the soft skin there, knowing she was watching him the entire time. Perhaps it was irreverent or unfair but he couldn't help but relish her body as it was.

This body she'd given to him, this body she'd take away.

"My opinion should be made fact," he lifted his face to look at her and rested his chin on her stomach, "And loosening your tongue might do you some good."

"Do you ply women with drink often?"

"Usually _before_ I take them to bed," he answered, tickling the indent of her hip.

"A sure way to make the woman _in_ your bed feel special," she said dryly, leaning her head on her hand.

"You're the only one I have ever wanted in my bed," he said gently, crawling up to come face to face with her, "And that's the truth of it."

"Then you're a fool," she said and took another drink, "I don't know if I can tell you. If I can talk to you about this."

He held up his glass, aware that her pain seemed suddenly to have multiplied. He set his glass back on the floor and touched her hair gently.

"I've always wanted your body," he said honestly, "But I've wanted _you_ more than I've ever wanted your body. I want you to talk to me, like you do in those moments when you think no one is watching you."

There was a full silence, the type heavy with thought and unsaid words then. She took a deep swig from the glass.

"It's so difficult," she lay back on the pillow, "I can't define my marriage. I can't explain it. There are times I care so deeply for him and times I hate him. It's so…so complex. I always thought I was fitter than that though, that I was better than an affair. I hate him Joseph," she took a deep breath, "But I have grown to love him too as a friend, a brother. A brother I want to kill. I…I sound absolutely insane."

"It's not easy to explain," he said softly, "I don't know if the language has been invented."

"It's not as easy as love and hate. It's something in between, tangled up with respect and duty and history. Joseph, I never thought I would break my wedding vows," she whispered, the Scotch ribboning her words together, "I never thought…I used to look at those women I knew who did so, who took lovers, and think I was better than them. I'm not."

He examined her for a moment, "Then you're not. But for the first time, in a long time, you're happy?"

"Yes."

"Well then," he touched her fingers, "Clarisse, we have done something wrong. There is no point in pretending otherwise. But we've wanted it for years and it would be ignorant to ignore that too."

"Yes."

"You just keep saying yes," he said it gently, but with an undertone of frustration.

She sighed, "It's all I can say."

"I'm sorry," he touched her shoulder, took a swig from his own glass, "I don't mean to lose my temper."

"I'm frightened," she whispered, "When we go back-"

"I know," he interrupted bluntly, knowing these words had to be said, "I know we can't continue."

She shook her head, "No."

There was a different kind of silence then, the kind that was full of grief that hadn't fully been discovered.

"It will be difficult," he said, still hopeful.

"No," she drained her glass, "No it will be impossible."

Setting her glass aside she crawled towards him and wrapped herself around his body, her mouth seeking out his. There was something of grief in their lovemaking; a pain that hadn't been there before.

In the late darkness he pulled her towards him, wrapping his hands around hers. The sense of the ending was heavy in the air.

"It's okay if it's impossible," he said softly into the dark.

"It can only lead to misery," she answered, after what felt like forever.

"Then that's our punishment."

* * *

Thank you for reading, please review.


	10. Part 1 - Ten

**Author's note:** Thank you, so very much, for the support and reviews.

I know it is a little miserable at times but hey, where's the fun in an easy ride?

* * *

The next morning they crept out of the apartment and he hailed a cab, nothing having been said between them from the moment they woke. Sobbing, she had lay in his arms as dawn welcomed them as a traitor, then as her tears dried she had moved away from him. He thought then his heart couldn't hurt anymore.

The world had gone on without them, twirling still without their input. The holdall – hastily packed – slung over his shoulder, they left the cab a block away from the hotel. There was no mention of Andre and no mention of what they had done. There were no words at all.

Genovia One was already on Spanish tarmac.

And would touch Genovian land by 3 p.m.

He'd been focussing on this time like a talisman – somehow it signalled the end of this life and the beginning of a bleak, desperate one. Apart from the fact he hadn't known why it was his focus, until he seen how quickly she had set their world aside, it seemed dreadful to acknowledge it.

He tried to guess what she was thinking but she had shut herself off to him. She had gone into the bathroom at the hotel and showered him off of her. She had shed him and he had slithered down the drain into nothingness.

On the plane home she didn't speak to him and he receded into the staff quarter to try and reassemble the shattered pieces of himself.

It was unfair that it ended like this so swiftly, so finally for him. It was the closing of a gate, the sliding of a hot knife wickedly across skin.

Formality, her special cruelty, was the shield she chose. Following her dinner and reunion with her husband and Prince Phillippe, she bid him goodnight. Her farewell was stiff and formal. A short "Goodnight Joseph".

As he watched her go, he wondered if he'd ever known her at all. He wondered if he'd ever been inside her.

He wondered if he had dreamed it.

He wondered if he had lost his mind.

 **-0-**

The cruelty of her formality, her return to what they had been before, was diminished by the passing of the week. But it was crueller to her that it was even to him.

She knew he didn't see it, she knew he was so angry at her, but she was so raw on their return that she had no idea how to handle it.

Her decision to forget it – as if it could be forgotten – was her very own. It was the only defence she had.

They fell back into their routine over the first week, because they had to, and back into their conversations to stall the growing silences. The silence were black and huge, like monsters or clouds. So she forced herself to fill them with gusto.

Every time she spoke to him, her voice sounded weak. Or contrite. Or false.

Both their mounts were clopping along slowly, taking the shorter trail which skirted the palace. She had chosen a shorter route because she had a meeting this morning and she wanted it over with. She felt queasy, her stomach churning with jolts and spasms that weren't helped by her decision to go riding. The sun was strong against her brow and it made her feel sore and disconcerted.

"Clarisse?"

She heard the trepidation in his voice. She stalled herself, twisting the leather reigns between her fingers.

"Yes?"

"Clarisse I'm…"

She was a coward who didn't fill the silence and instead let it linger because it suited her this time. He obviously decided to switch tact.

"Will it ever be the same?"

She was, as always, amazed by the bluntness of his questioning. She turned to him.

"It can't be."

For the first time they were alone and this was the conversation she knew he would choose. It didn't surprise her but it hurt nonetheless that he'd already backed away from his promise.

He shook his head, pulled the horse to a stop, "I didn't mean like in Madr-"

"Please don't say it," she was angry when her voice cracked.

"I meant before…before then. Before us, before what happened." he said quietly.

She felt so much shame, so much pity then, that she couldn't answer him immediately.

"I am trying."

"No you're not," he accused, "No you're not. Don't lie to me."

"I do not know how to be what you want," she answered, feeling frustrated.

"I just want you to talk to me like you used to," he shook his head, "But I know it's n-"

"Rupert apologised," she said quietly, "And he meant it."

She knew his silence, as it always did, signalled that he was processing this news.

"Well that's good," he said, tone bland and non-committal.

"You know if you want it to be the same, you can't hate me every time I mention his name."

She was clutching at straws that weren't there.

He nodded, "I miss you Clarisse."

"I know," she said softly, "I miss you too."

"Can we at least try?"

She nodded, though she knew it couldn't possibly be a success. She wondered what it would do to them eventually; perhaps he would leave, go and work elsewhere. He would have to because this couldn't go on. It couldn't remain.

"Is there a chance...?"

"No," she said it almost fiercely.

"We're alone here, there is no one watching us," he said softly, "You don't have to be afraid of me."

"No, Joseph."

"I don't mean for sex," his voice was suddenly angry, "God what do you think I am? I mean to talk to me, to be honest. You think I'd do that out here with you in the open?"

"I-"

"Clarisse I agreed with you. I promised you it ended there. But I didn't realise…I didn't think…"

She looked at him, and in her urgency, shot out her hand across the gap to graze his. Then she held his fingers in place, rubbing them.

"That it would be this difficult?"

He stole a sideways glance at her, where she was intent on his face. All of the trappings set aside, she had forgotten who she was and what she was supposed to do. His hand in hers had transported her back and she allowed it to.

He nodded, "Yes."

"I know," she held his fingers still, "Joseph, don't leave me."

He didn't answer but she didn't pull away either.

 **-0-**

"You're distracted," Rupert murmured, forking a final mouthful of dinner, "Are you alright?"

"Hmmm," she realised he was talking to her, "Yes."

Another crippling jolt of nausea, still plaguing her since that morning, made her feel as if she would heave.

"You don't seem it," he continued, "Listen if this is still about Pierre-"

"It's not Rupert," she said slowly, forcing bile back from her throat.

The chicken on her plate was whole and vile. She slid it away.

"Good," he shook his head, "You know we can fix this."

"Yes, I know."

She knew she sounded utterly uncommitted.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes Rupert," she sighed, "Please stop asking."

"Please stop asking what?"

She looked up to see her youngest son standing at the far end of the dining table. He was smiling lightly, a basketball jammed between his hip and forearm.

"Have you seen Joe?"

" _Hello mother, hello father_ ," Rupert said airily, "Apparently you don't have manners."

"Hello mother, hello father," Phillippe mimicked, throwing a sly smile their way.

She shook her head and resisted a laugh at Rupert's indignation.

"He has a night off," Clarisse answered.

"Mmmm," Phillippe looked momentarily disappointed, "Thank you. See you later."

"Okay, darling."

"Phillippe?"

Rupert called him back. The boy pivoted on his sneakers and turned to face them again.

"Father?"

Her husband folded his napkin neatly atop his empty plate, "We need to talk about schools."

"Papa I still have another year of boarding left," he sighed.

"But it's important you consider-"

"Nothing to consider," Phillippe interrupted, not unkindly, "I am going to America."

"Phil-"

"Not tonight," Clarisse cut across the discussion quietly, "Not tonight."

Her son stopped immediately and, to his credit, so did Rupert. Then her son turned his attention to her.

"Mama, are you alright? You've looked terrible since you got back from Madrid."

She looked at her son, "I am fine. Simply tired. Honestly."

"Alright," he turned to go, "Get to bed."

There was silence then, only broken by the scratch of a match and the little whoosh of Rupert's cigar catching light.

"He's right. Did something happen in Madrid?"

It wasn't an accusation but she felt it like that anyway. She looked at him, stared him in the eye with unnecessary defiance.

"No, what on earth can you mean?"

He shook his head, "Hey, it was a busy schedule. You never stopped apart from those few days. I am simply checking." He laughed, "You need to relax."

She smiled tightly, "Sorry. I'm just tired."

"I can see that," he touched her hand and it took all of her effort not to flinch, "I love you."

She looked at him and she knew he really meant it.

"I know. I love you too."

But she didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it.

 **-0-**

He watched her from afar, noting how tired she looked. Since their return it had seemed like time was flying past them. He could still feel her hand in his on their ride the day before but the feeling tingled in the final stages of ending, of disappearing. As she came towards him he stood and tried vainly to smile.

"How was Parliament your majesty?"

She stalled, evidently shocked by his feigned normality. Then she smiled. Her smile was relieved and gentle, as if she could finally smile without being afraid.

"It was…." She shook her head, "So boring."

He laughed dryly at her response.

"Always boring," she laughed with him, "I mean it was truly atrocious."

He was amused by her complaining, following as she began to walk.

"Was Lord Henry sleeping?"

She turned to him, "No, leering. He was in a leering mood today."

He shook his head and laughed as she did an impression of the old man; eyes bulging, mouth slack, neck dipped forward. He laughed at the uncanny similarity and at how her beautiful face could contort into an old man's.

Straightening up, she giggled too, "I forgot to drool."

"Thank God," he smiled, following her as she led them to the private family chambers.

"It would have put you right off me."

With the wrong footing of her words there was an awkward silence between them. She hadn't meant it like that, of course, but it sounded flirty and scandalous all at once.

"That was stupid to say," she said quietly, slowing as the footmen at her chamber came into view.

"No," he stopped her, reaching out a hand to still her, "It was alright. I just…"

She shook her head.

"What have you got the rest of the day?"

"I'm feeling poorly," she sighed, "So I'm going to sleep."

"Right," he nodded, stopping at her door, "Right."

With a curt little bow he turned and walked away. She couldn't resist watching him as he went and feeling as if he would never come back.

A few hours later she got up, sweat dampening her hair line, from a fitful sleep. She hadn't bothered to change but her suit was weighing her down as she stumbled to the bathroom and threw up unceremoniously in the sink. Cupping some water in her hands she rinsed her mouth and then splashed her face. The cool water was a blessed relief though it offered only a small respite from the sickness she felt. She was confronted again by her own reflection as she began to strip, dumping the expensive Valentino suit in a pile and running the bath.

"Clarisse?"

The voice startled her and though it was her husband's, she wasn't used to hearing it here.

"Rupert, I'm in the bathroom," she grasped for her robe, "Don't come in."

She tied it around her waist, pulling the belt tight, and went out into the sitting room. He was standing at the couch.

"You're not well," he said, "I want you to see a doctor."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," he shook his head, "Clarisse, the doctor will be here at nine a.m."

"I'm tired," she said softly, "And old. That is what it is."

"Where has this maudlin attitude come from?"

"Am I not allowed to be down?"

He looked at her and frowned, "Clarisse, I didn't mean it like that."

"Rupert, just leave me alone."

He drummed his fingers on the soft arm of the couch, "You are being ridiculous."

"I am not," she sat down, "I am just tired."

"See the doctor?"

"Okay."

She gave in because she couldn't bear to argue it out with him.

"Thank you."

She'd stopped asking where he was going, it occurred to her, as she watched him go. She couldn't remember the last time she'd asked Rupert what he was doing or how his schedule was. See, in the first few years she'd come to realise a lot of his answers were lies; stretched half-truths and fables. Tonight was perhaps mistress night, or perhaps the night where he preferred brandy over her.

It wasn't that she was offended by his lies or that they hurt anymore but she'd just stopped asking because watching him make the effort of constructing a lie was hard.

She was surprised by his insistence, his fervour that she see the doctor though. It reminded her that he cared, in his own way.

Making her way to the bathroom again she stopped the faucets. She fished in the medicine cabinet, swallowed two of the pills, and slipped into the bath.


	11. Part 1 - Eleven

**Author's note:** Thank you, as always, for your tremendous support and reviews. There will be a happy ending - after a protracted and miserable middle part - so please stick with it.

There is profanity in this chapter, and there will be for the remainder of the story.

* * *

She stared at him. Stared and saw right through him. She'd heard this three times now in her life and each time it was like a punch to the side of the head. Her mind swayed into dizziness.

"That isn't possible," her strangled laugh died into oblivion.

"Actually, Your Majesty, it very much is. For a woman your age-"

She held up a hand, "You have to be wrong."

"I'm not."

He wasn't rude but it didn't stop her wanting to scream at him. Instead she knitted her fingers together in her lap and stared at his face. He was smiling weakly.

"I am too old."

"It's quite common, for women of your age, to think they're beyond…things get unpredictable, hard to follow or keep track of..." He made an awkward little gesture.

"Pregnant? Are you sure?"

"Mmm," he nodded and stood, "Would you like me to fetch the King?"

She almost shot up, "Oh, no. No. I'd much rather tell him alone."

At first he seemed bemused but then he sat back down.

The doctor smiled through the awkward silence, "He will be pleased."

She didn't answer. How would he be pleased when he hadn't laid a hand on her in years?

The doctor was studying her face, "Your Majesty, are you okay?"

She could barely resist the tears gathering behind her eyes. _Stupid Clarisse,_ she kept on saying in her head. _You stupid little girl._

"I am simply shocked…" she murmured, dipping her head.

"I understand," he nodded kindly, "But it's important, at your age-"

"Please stop saying that," she barked impatiently.

He sunk back onto his seat, "I am sorry. Perhaps I shall give you some time to come to terms with the news. Then I'll come back. What about a week?"

She nodded quietly and didn't dare look at him. She liked the royal physician and he had been loyal and good. She knew, realistically, that he wouldn't break her confidentiality even if it was just because his job was at stake. He was looking at her, though, as if he knew.

"Your Majesty, if you don't want to continue with the…"

His words died as she shook her head, not able to bear what he was about to say.

"You should start thinking about your health," he said into the silence.

"Yes," she tried to pull herself together, "But please, I ask for your discretion in this matter."

"Of course Your Majesty," he nodded stiffly, "Of course. I'd behave in no other manner."

She stood up, "Thank you."

"So-"

"I know what to do," she said softly, cutting over his well-meaning advice.

"Of course you do," he smiled, "Of course you do."

Ignoring her dizziness, the smudged feeling of dread building in her, she went immediately to the gardens. She should have called for Joseph but she couldn't imagine facing him right now. Instead she took the servants stairs, ghosting through the back kitchens when the cook was humming noisily as she prepared lunch. Skirting along the edges of the palace she let tears cascade, unchecked, down her cheeks. She dipped her face as she passed the head gardener, afraid he'd see her misery. Finally she slipped into the walled rose garden, knowing she wouldn't be disturbed there, and sunk down amongst the roses she so loved.

She felt the flat, soft plane of her stomach under her dress. It seemed such a terrible misery to find herself this way. Her own naivety, her own sense of belief, had punished her wildly. She had never once imagined she could become pregnant – she had really thought herself past that – when she had fallen, quite willingly, into Joseph's bed.

Her tears fell even more, darkening the pretty pink silk of her dress. She curled her feet underneath herself on the soft grass and gripped her own shoulders, offering the small feel of comfort she could. Had she not made such a colossal mess, this news might have been happy for her. Instead it was an agony she shouldn't have to endure because of a weekend of self-indulgence.

She was paying the price for finally giving in.

"Clarisse!"

The voice, soft but gruff, startled her from her misery. She swiped angrily at her tears but there was no point in trying to conceal her upset. After all, she was slumped on the ground and curled over onto herself.

She refused to look him in the eye as he crouched down beside her and pulled her into him.

"Clarisse, what happened? Is there something wrong?"

Anger, so strong it was overwhelming, flared up in her chest. She pushed him away – pushing away his heat and comfort – and moved back.

"Why must you follow me everywhere?"

The shock on his face was unsettling and she felt momentarily sad for him. Then she remembered why she had to do this.

"Clarisse I- "

"Your Majesty," she corrected sharply, "Leave me alone."

"Why are you doing this? What is wrong?"

He leaned forward on his knees, stretching out his hand to grasp her.

"No," she muttered, standing up, "No Joseph. This has to stop. This has to end. You must go."

He shook his head, "Clarisse, please."

His upset was so evident but she couldn't possibly let him know. She had to deal with this on her own. She knew she would have to become so involved in lies and perfidy and she couldn't have him involved too.

"No," she hardened her voice, "Joseph this ends here. It ends here."

He fell back down on to the grass, "You can't mean-"

"I mean it," she said, turning back to him.

"Clarisse please."

"Enough."

 **-0-**

The next morning he re-worked the details, so that he would work with the crown prince on his return and Anton, who did not have a detail, would be with the queen. It was the simplest way to ensure he didn't have to see her and to give her the space she so obviously wanted. He was going to give her time to come to her senses, to clear her head. And he needed time too.

Anton looked at him, "I don't understand."

Joseph's face remained impassive, "Need a change. That's all."

"You always work with the Queen," Anton said, "She won't be-"

"Actually she asked for this," he answered, not without bite.

"Oh," Anton nodded, "Right. The maids said she's been sick, nearly every day. Is she alright?"

"I don't know," he sat down at his desk and pulled the accounts he'd been looking through towards him, "I don't know that I care."

He looked up to see Anton's shocked face staring back at him.

"Anton, the Queen has an appearance in an hour – you should be getting ready to go."

Anton stalled, "Yes. Yes sir."

The other man having left, he fell forward onto the desk and laid his cheek against the cool surface. His blood was pulsing through his body, angry and hot. Her horrible – and there was no other word for it – behaviour, had rendered him miserable. Pulling out paper from the desk at his side and his pen from his pocket, he began composing his resignation for the second time in his employment at the palace. In frustration, he threw the pen down and crumpled the paper into a ball, tossing it into the trash at his side.

He regretted all of it and the plain truth of that was hard to admit.

He regretted and wanted it all at the same time.

 **-0-**

It was a relief to see Anton, rather than Joseph, come through the door. The thought of moving though, in her intense nausea, was nigh on impossible. She couldn't let anyone see it though or know she was sick; it would render her ruse unbelievable. She stood up instead, smoothing her jacket over her dress in her customary manner.

"It's nice to see you Anton," she smiled, "I assume you will be working with me for the immediate future?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. Then let's go to the king."

Rupert was awaiting her in the foyer, a pleasant smile on his mouth. He'd spent the night before with his mistress and he was always pleasant afterwards. For some wives this might hurt and she wouldn't deny that it used to but now it meant nothing to her. Over time he'd grown more discreet with his philandering and there were less whispers about it; perhaps it was just that people had come to know it was the truth and the truth was boring. And over time their partnership, their work as a team, had become more important than their marriage.

"Good morning dear," he moved to kiss her, "Where is Joseph?"

"Rota change," she smiled, ignoring the twinge of pain the very words sent along her spine.

He accepted her answer, "I hear you feel better. The doctor told me on the way out."

She didn't let her panic show, "Of course. I think I'm just exhausted."

"Well that won't do darling," he took her hand and kissed the back of it, "I can't bear to have a sick Queen."

She smiled, "I will try not to be sick then."

He opened the car door for her, "Clarisse, I missed you when you were away."

"Thank you Rupert."

He leaned forward and pressed the partition up, "Clarisse, I wanted to talk to you."

She felt suddenly nauseous. Frightened to look at him, she tried to casually examine her nails instead.

"Oh?"

"Yes," he took her hand, "We should spend more time together. I feel like I've been…lax in ensuring your happiness of late. You're evidently tired and stressed and I should be-"

"You are a perfectly sweet husband Rupert but your apology is unnecessary," she smiled, genuine because her relief was full and her guilt was massive.

"Sweet wouldn't be the word," he shook his head, "Clarisse I'd like it if you took more time to yourself. Slowed down a bit."

She simply nodded her head.

"And Pierre will be home from Florence soon and hopefully we'll get back to normal."

"I am frightened it won't be so simple," she said.

"Don't be silly. This phase will pass too."

She didn't want to ruin his mood or tarnish his belief so she simply smiled and nodded.

At the new leisure centre there was a sizeable crowd to greet them, waiting eagerly in the morning sun.

"Ready?"

She looked at her husband, "Yes, always."

There were police monitoring the crowd, and a large detail, but without Joseph she felt vulnerable. There was always something about him which made her feel secure, a safety she felt with no one else. Her hand, as if of its own accord, went to the flat softness of her stomach. There was nothing there. His child wasn't tangible yet within her but it was there nonetheless.

The woman before her was holding a baby, no more than a year old. It was a smiling, gurgling blond boy who cooed and giggled as his mother nuzzled his cheek.

"Your Majesty," she smiled and dropped into a curtsy that was hindered by the lovely boy on her hip, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you," as if by instinct she reached out to caress the little boy's cheek, "What age is he?"

"Eight months, Your Majesty."

"He is lovely," she smiled, "You must be so proud."

The infant gurgled happily as his mother nodded.

"Your Majesty," Anton spoke beside her, "Time to go inside."

She touched the soft pink cheek once more and nodded her assent. She would never do that with her own baby, the child inside her now. She knew she would never caress its soft face or feel its tiny heart flutter under her hand. For a moment, as she stalled in the middle of the vast crowd, she pictured it like it could have been – the three of them, a house by the sea, happiness and quiet laughter and days in bed. She would never know that though and the agony of it made her want to scream.

 **-0-**

He knew the only sensible way of communicating with her, without having to speak to her publicly, was to write a letter. A week had passed since her cruel dismissal in the rose garden and he'd managed to avoid her entirely. He'd exiled himself to his office, using an audit as his excuse, and had left the running of the everyday things to Anton. He supposed that it was a good thing, if he really did decide to leave, as Anton would probably succeed him. If not, it was good experience for him anyway. He looked at the letter in front of himself and scribbled across it.

"What are you doing there?"

Violetta peered over his shoulder. He hadn't heard her come in.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," he pushed the paper into his drawer.

"They're back," she muttered absently.

"Oh, good," he smiled, "I trust all went well?"

"Yes," she nodded, "Joseph?"

He knew, from the tone of her voice, that she was uncomfortable with whatever she was about to ask.

"Violetta?"

"Is everything alright?"

He nodded but he didn't look at her face, "Of course."

"It's just the Queen..."

"Yes?"

He was challenging her, daring her to proceed. He knew Violetta didn't pick her battles lightly and she wouldn't have asked without thinking she had good reason.

"Oh nothing," she shook her head.

"Good."

"Yes," she nodded and stood up, "Have a nice evening."

"You too."

She had made it abundantly clear how she wanted it to be, his Queen. For a stupid few days he'd let himself believe he was stronger than her duty and her fear. He had been a fool, and oddly he was okay with that, but he couldn't withstand the pain that shot through him every time he felt the cracks growing bigger and bigger.

He leaned forward and started to write again, hoping that the right words would materialise on the page.

 **-0-**

She climbed into bed, ignoring her typical habit of two pills, and was startled when she rolled over onto a crunching and fresh envelope under her head. She'd been so preoccupied with her recent news that she hadn't even noticed it propped up on her pillow. Recognising the neat, dark handwriting, she opened it with trembling fingers. This would be his resignation, his farewell letter to her. She'd cherish it; knowing that she'd done something beyond terrible to him at the one point in her life when she wanted him more than she ever had.

 _Clarisse,_

 _I don't know what I've done. I don't expect you'll tell me either. I will go if you want me to, or I'll stay. Either way we need to find a way to fix this._

 _Yours,_

 _Joseph_

The letter shook between her fingers and, sitting up, she read it again. She'd thought she had been clear. He had no option but to go. Not because she wanted him to but because, for his sake, he had to.

She padded out of bed and pulled on her night gown. She knew, of course, that it was incredibly foolish but she was possessed by the kind of urgency that made her feel out of control.

Some ten minutes later she was outside his door, knocking quietly on the wood.

"Who is it?"

She didn't answer for fear some other occupant of the corridor would hear her.

He opened up anyway, and was evidently shocked to see her as she held the note out and thrust it onto the plane of his chest.

"Do you want to come in?"

He laughed a little but then suddenly he was angry, "I have whiskey. You could come in and forget all your troubles. Tell me all your troubles…"

She blanched and leaned forward, "I told you to leave me alone."

"We were fine," he turned round, leaving the door open, "What happened?"

She followed him in, her bare feet padding against the wooden floors. She didn't want to walk in but his bating and loud voice had made her frightened the others would hear. She shut the door behind her.

"Only shut it if you plan to stay darling."

He spat the words and she was genuinely afraid for a moment, backing away. She'd never seen him so angry before or, if she had, it had never been directed at her at least.

"Joseph, I am only trying to be reasonable."

She watched him pour a scotch and toss it back, "Want one?"

"Joseph please-"

"Fucking _reasonable_?" He held a glass out to her, "You're fucking delusional."

"Don't use that language with me," she set the glass aside, realising now he was drunk.

She hadn't realise how truly hurt he was. She knew, of course, she would have hurt him but she didn't imagine he'd suffer so badly. She'd thought he was stronger than this. Or perhaps that was merely her naivety.

"It wasn't that when you were in my bed," he came towards her.

"Joseph I am sorry."

"Drink up," he lifted the glass beside her, "Come on. Then you can use me again and then you can-"

"I don't want it," she set the glass down and turned to the door, "This was a bad idea."

He grabbed her by the arm, stopping her. It wasn't a violent grip but it was by no means gentle.

"I'll hand my resignation in," he said quietly, "Just one more night."

"No," she shook her head, looking towards the door, "It would only hurt you more."

"I don't think I can hurt any more Clarisse," he laughed lowly and dropped his hand, "I don't think anything can hurt like this can. On you go…you'll have my letter tomorrow."

She nodded stoically, "I am so sorry."

He laughed and went towards the decanter again, "Don't worry. It's our punishment, isn't it, for our garden of earthly delights? I knew what I was doing but I'm starting to think you weren't worth it."

She knew it was just vitriol and that he was just a wounded animal but it didn't matter – it still made stinging tears spring to her eyes.

"Well thank you, Joseph, for making me feel like I was nothing."

"Any time."

* * *

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	12. Part 1 - Twelve

**Author's note:** Thank you, so much, for all your encouragement. It's still grim, and it will be for a while, but I promise there'll be a happy ending. Thank you for all your reviews too. Please keep reviewing.

* * *

He'd tried, vainly, to compose his resignation. He'd go to Madrid, sell up the apartment, then take off and travel. He wanted to travel, wanted to see the world. With a grumble of fury he set the letter aside again and decided he needed to go for a run and think of what he needed to put in there. It should be easy to draft a letter of resignation - he'd done it before – but he was resigning from something else too. He was resigning her; giving her up despite his cruel words and her bitter ones and the love that had grown between them.

It wasn't quite sun up but he needed to get fresh air and he decided to go quietly through the kitchens. He thought he'd be on his own but he realised, very quickly, that he wasn't.

"She was throwing up," Priscilla's voice, even though whispering, carried through the door, "Again."

He stalled, flattening his back against the wall as quietly as he could. He didn't know why he was hiding or didn't want to be seen but he knew who they were talking about.

"I don't think you should tell anyone," Violetta's voice answered.

"Why not? You don't think...?"

"It's not our job to conjecture. I'm just saying that you should tell no one, are we clear?"

"Yes," she answered, "The king will be pleased."

"Hmmm,"Violetta's voice was non-committal.

He felt suddenly very hot.

"The queen, pregnant, at her age. I know she's only in her forties but that's shoc-"

"And none of our business," Violetta barked, shutting down any comment at all.

He fled then, clattering into the table of flowers in the hall and leaving a riot of shattered porcelain and petals behind.

Pregnant? Fucking pregnant. There was no way she was pregnant.

Well, logically, of course there was.

He'd done plenty that could theoretically get her pregnant but she seemed pretty sure she was unable to get pregnant.

The word kept flashing in everything he thought. He ran faster, trying to run away from it, but it wouldn't leave his head.

Not bothering to shower, he went to the back stairs and climbed two at a time, emerging in the servants' corridor which ran parallel to the royal apartments. He couldn't catch a breath, no matter how much he tried. He felt deranged, as if someone else was controlling him. Stealing out of the door he slipped into her chambers, both annoyed that the footmen weren't there and relieved.

She was coming out of the bathroom, idly toweling her hair. It was like he'd forgotten what her body looked like over only a few weeks and he felt stunned to see her, so vulnerable and beautiful, in front of him again.

She stalled when she saw him, her towel falling out of her hands. She gripped the one around her body, as if he might pull it from her at any moment.

"Pregnant?"

She looked at him as if she'd never looked upon him before.

"Pregnant?" This time he shouted it and had to hold himself in the chair.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

The tremble in her mouth and the flicker of her eyes gave her away.

"It's mine?"

She said nothing as she began to shake violently. Stumbling forward she fell into the chair beside his.

"I-"

"So it's mine?"

"You were not supposed to find out Joseph."

He looked at her then and saw her vulnerability, her melodramatic plan to push him away. He wanted to reach out to her but he knew she would reject him so he refused to allow himself to act.

"You weren't going to tell me?"

She looked up, "You would never have known."

"Oh," he suddenly understood and felt sick, "Clarisse, I…"

"Don't hate me," she shook her head.

"But Clarisse – "

"I don't have a choice," she wouldn't look at him, "There is no choice. I have to. I can't carry your child."

There was a different sort of pain now, the type that was like acid, slowly stripping away anything that ever felt good. He could see it in her too.

"You don't have to-"

"I do," she whispered, her hand ghosting over the soft towel covering her abdomen, "I can't carry your child."

"It's illegal. You can't do that in Genovia."

"There are ways," she said softly, "It is that or I go back to his bed. I can't do that to him or to me. I won't lie to him. I've lied enough as it is."

He was embarrassed then by her honesty. He shook his head.

"Clarisse, it's my child...our child."

She was silent for a moment and then she met his eyes, "Don't you think I've cried over that every night? I've pictured what it could be Joseph, and it's beautiful. I-"

"I could take you away! I could make you, I could make us, safe," he knew he sounded pitiful and desperate as he lunged forward to clutch her hand.

This desperate dream, so quickly having become a reality, was bleeding out in front of him and he was helpless.

She didn't pull away.

"No."

"Why not?"

"There are too many reasons but my boys…my sons…" she sighed, "You would never have known Joseph."

"And who, who was going to help you?"

"I would have found someone," she murmured, "But now…"

It took him a moment to fully understand her. His brain couldn't catch up with her thoughts, no matter how he tried. She was miles ahead of him, childless already, back in her own life. He was here though, in the midst of a terrible revelation.

"You're asking me to help you get rid of our child?"

He was incredulous. It wasn't disgust but he certainly never imagined this conversation taking place. He'd wanted children but he'd never had them because he couldn't have them with her. He had thought their punishment would end here but apparently it hadn't. His mind was a melee of thoughts that ran together with no pauses or rests. It was disconcerting and frightening, to hear no breaks in his thinking or in his words.

"Clarisse," he shook his head, "Clarisse you need to think about this."

"I have," she stood and disappeared into the bedroom, re-emerging wearing her robe, "And you are the only one I know I can trust."

"Clarisse-"

"Joseph, Priscilla will be here soon," she said quietly, icily, "I promise you we'll speak later."

"No I want to speak now," he stood up.

"Yes, and I do too but Joseph we can't."

"You're pregnant."

He was convinced, if he just kept repeating it, he'd somehow believe it. The silence that followed was both awkward and stilted.

"Yes. I'll see you this evening. I promise."

"Yes, yes okay."

He turned to go when she called him back suddenly, gripping the back of the couch.

"Joseph!"

"Yes?"

"Please hold me."

He hadn't seen the tears in her eyes until that moment, simply because it was easier to blame her.

 **-0-**

She let him go eventually, relinquishing him when she knew she only had minutes to spare. In his arms there was a calm she hadn't felt but a sudden fear too. A fear that she couldn't simply dismiss him, dismiss his child, as if it had never altered and changed her. Then he was gone, ghosting out as if he'd never been there. Maybe he hadn't, maybe he was simply a figment of her imagination. As soon as the door was closed she sunk to the couch, trembling from the force of her own determination as it crashed around her feet.

It was only when Violetta entered that she finally pulled herself from her own terror.

"Your Majesty," Violetta asked quietly, "Are you okay?"

"Violetta," she smiled, though she knew it was tight, "Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she snapped, regretting her tone instantly.

"Perhaps you need some time to yourself today?"

"No," Clarisse stood up, "Absolutely not."

"As you wish Your Majesty," she nodded, setting a folder down, "We're not due to meet until nine a.m. but you should read this for the afternoon briefing from the prime minister. He is meeting with yourself and the king."

"I'm sorry Violetta," she said gently, stopping the woman.

"Do you need me to do anything?"

She looked at her assistant, a woman too distant to be her friend but too close to be simply an employee. She was under the impression, of course, that Violetta knew. Violetta always knew.

"I-" she shook her head.

"I'm sure I can find a way to help you."

She couldn't meet her assistant's eyes, "No, that won't be necessary."

The woman nodded, "As you wish, Your Majesty."

The day passed in an agony that she had never known before. Gone was the nausea that had plagued her when it seemed so simple. Now there was something deft about the sickness, as if she was rotting from the inside out.

And she knew it was a manifestation of the terrible decision she'd made. The terrible, beautiful decision.

He met her in the quiet of the library, as she'd expected. He knew she retired here when she needed to escape the pressures of her role. Now though, they seemed to follow her everywhere. He was calmer looking but his black suit hung limp with the heat of the day and the visit to the polo field with the king in the late afternoon.

"How was it?" She asked.

"Hot," he answered quietly, taking the seat beside her on the couch, "Listen-"

"Let me speak," she whispered.

"No," he touched her fingers, "Clarisse I've been thinking. It's wrong of me to ask you to do this. It's wrong of me. I'll do whatever you need me to."

She would have sworn he was on the verge of tears then and the rumble of his voice was cracked with emotion.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Just, I…" he shook his head, "Let me arrange it all. It's safer for you then. The trail won't lead back to you. Don't talk to the physician, talk to me and let me deal with it. My friend is a doctor and he…"

The phrase hung between then, along with his silent pleading. She wondered if he thought that looking as if he wanted to do it was a charade in the vain hope she'd reconsider. She couldn't, despite how much she wanted to.

"Imagine her," he said softly, suddenly.

"What?"

"Just imagine her for me, just for a second."

She saw her plainly then; a perfectly pink infant, tucked between her father's arms. She had ebony hair and dark, silken skin. She looked like a sin, a work of art, a garden of earthly delights made flesh.

"You think it's a girl," against her own will, against her better judgement, she caressed her stomach. Between her fingers and flesh and the soft, gentle murmuring of a body in agony, there was a bond forged in something stronger than steel and gold.

"Yes," he wouldn't look at her.

"I would have to sleep with him," she said, the very thought repulsing her, not because Rupert was unattractive but because it had been so very long and it had never been something that happened between then intentionally. Drunken and unfulfilled fumbles were their specialty.

"I won't ask you-"

"I don't know if I can," she said suddenly.

"I know," he insisted, "I know."

"No," she shook her head, "I thought it'd be easy, to get rid of it. You've made me see her. I don't know if I could live with myself. I don't know if I can…" Her voice gave way to tears and she fell against him, "Our baby."

"Our baby," he repeated her words as if they were a gentle prayer.

His arms wound around her and he held her to him as he hadn't done in weeks.

"Clarisse, take time. Think. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it."

She knew his vow to be as true as all his others. Perhaps this time she didn't want it to be.

* * *

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	13. Part 1 - Thirteen

**Author's note:** Thank you for all the lovely reviews. I am so glad you're enjoying it. Please keep doing so.

* * *

"Violetta," she said across the desk two days later, pushing the nerves from her voice, "I need you to source a bottle of Balmachie '56."

"Your Majesty?"

"For the king," she answered without looking up from her papers, "He's had a tough week and I'd like to treat him. What pleases King Rupert more than vintage scotch?"

Her assistant smiled, "Of course."

"Could you make it happen today?" She asked, but her assistant was already on her feet.

"I'll take one of the cars, if that is alright. I have a dealer in mind," Violetta smiled, "But he's in Mertz."

"Of course," Clarisse agreed lightly, eyes still on the paper, "Of course. Thank you."

She watched her assistant go and reveled, finally, in the silence. She pushed her seat from behind the desk and went to the window, her hand protectively across the tiny bulge of her stomach. Looking out the window she saw him them, Joseph, walking with her husband as if he was both confidant and employer. She wondered then what he'd think of her. She wondered what they both would think.

Making too much of an effort would seem contrived so she settled for removing her shoes, her suit jacket, and padding down the hall towards his private study as the sun fell. He liked her like this, she knew, because he liked her just a little askew; not perfectly tailored and coiffed. He would appreciate the spontaneity, the drunken fumbling of two adults hell-bent on some sexual satisfaction. That was what they had always been on the rare occasion he'd coaxed her into his bed. It occurred to her then, as she padded along soft marble, that she had only recently made love for the first time. She had scooped up two crystal glasses from the side board and, with them clinking between her fingers, she knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Me."

She heard him shuffle to the door and was pleased to see his smile as he opened it for her. At one point she had thought she could force herself to love him because of that smile. She had always loved his smile but she'd never quite loved him.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" He motioned her in with his hand and laughed when she held up the scotch.

"Oh," she placed the two glasses down on his desk, "You've had a hard week. I was once told it was a wife's job to relax her husband following a tough week at work."

He laughed again, "Have you met my wife?"

"Mmmm," she offered him a glass with an ambitiously large measure and clinked hers against it.

He examined the bottle, "Oh I am being spoiled."

"It's been a long time since we got drunk," she smiled, feigning a sip as he took a very genuine, and large, one and settled on the sofa, "We used to do it much more."

"When we were young," he laughed.

"Hmmmm," she curled up on the seat across from him, "When our boys weren't the terror they are now."

Rupert smiled but it was tight, "Pierre's back next week."

"I know," she waived her hand, "Let's not talk about that."

"Then," he paused for another slug, "Then what will we talk about?"

"Tell me about your hard week?"

"That's boring for you."

She cocked an eye brow, enjoying the charade now that she had recalled the good factors of her husband's personality, "No, it isn't."

He examined the golden liquid for a moment, then lifted it to his lips again, "Clarisse I'm getting old. I am not fit like I used to be."

She nodded and sought solace in another false sip. She wondered if he'd notice the liquid wasn't lessening despite her feigned drinking.

"Aren't we both old?"

"No," he smiled, "If anything, you've got even more gorgeous."

She scoffed and curled her legs under herself, "I was never gorgeous."

"Yes…you were. I just…." He took a sip, "I never noticed it."

She smiled, "Listen, we have made the best of what we've got. Haven't we?"

"We've tried. I'm sorry I got stuck in about Pierre."

She thought about it for a second, "You were right to feel angry."

There was a soft, gentle silence then. She had forgotten, just for a moment, why she was there and it was nice, it was safe and pleasant. When love had never figured in their equation she had at least had this.

"When did we stop talking?"

She asked into the quiet.

"I don't know."

"No, nor do I."

"I'm sorry I'm a real prat sometimes."

She laughed a little, "I suppose then I am obliged to apologise for being an utter bitch."

He laughed too, "I suppose."

"I suppose," she repeated, watching him refill his glass.

His cheeks were growing red – a sure sign of impending inebriation – and the cruelty of her own intentions was not lost on her. Like any good pragmatist though, she would push through in the determined way that had gained her such cold infamy.

"It has been so long," she said quietly.

He tipped his head behind his glass, draining the last slither before filling up again. When you are wealthy, he once told her, you should drink scotch like water.

"What has?"

It doesn't matter."

But the seed was planted.

A bottle of ludicrously expensive booze later and she was fumbling with the buckle of his belt as he clumsily unhooked her buttons. She closed her eyes against the bitter smell of alcohol and fresh, earthly soap that clung to him like the stench of wealth did too. She tried to imagine other hands – rough and large and infinitely tender – but it was as if she'd already forgotten what it meant to be worth something.

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	14. Part 1 - Fourteen

**Author's note:** So we reach the end of part 1, and I wanted to get it over and done with today. Major profanity in this chapter.

Thank you so so much for all of the reviews. I am so glad you're enjoying it.

* * *

He was prone to waking earlier now than he ever had and the last time he'd slept properly had been when she had last lay in his arms. Every time he'd looked at her in the past week he saw her differently. Candy-coated in the light of the woman who was carrying his child, he felt a tenderness towards her that seemed magnified even more. But there was horror too, like granite in the pit of his stomach, when he thought of what would ultimately become of his child.

A child that would never be.

Head down, eyes pricking with humiliating tears that seemed to accompany him everywhere, he came into the security room just as the nightshift were finishing up. He was always here for the handover, despite the fact he didn't need to be. It was part of the routine that reminded him he was Head of Security, despite the fact he still mostly acted as a trumped-up bodyguard because he couldn't relinquish her security to anyone else.

"Morning boss," Juan smiled, though he looked tired.

"Uneventful night?"

"Mmm, yeah."

"Not strictly true," Dominic interrupted and Joe watched as Juan winced for a moment.

"What?" He asked, knowing his tone was unnecessarily sharp.

"Nothing-"

"The queen went to the king's chamber last night," Dominic laughed loudly, his tone one of boyish joy, "King will be grinning today."

"Sorry, what do you mean?"

His stupidity was a result of reluctance to believe it. She had refused the idea outright, refused it in favour of an option that he hated as equally. She would have told him, he knew, she would have spoken to him if she chose to do that. He had to believe she would have prepared him for It, at least.

"What do you think I mean?"

Juan remained tellingly silent. Joe wondered how much the man suspected.

"They're a married couple," Joseph answered, lack of oxygen constricting his gullet to a strangle of muscle, "They can do what they want."

Dominic just shrugged, ignorant and happy, "Yeah, they can. I'm out. Time for sleep."

Joe watched him go.

"That's not our business," Juan said, removing his earpiece.

"You would think so, wouldn't you?"

Once they were gone, and the next shift were yet to arrive, he had a moment to think straight. She'd slept with her husband. His immediate reaction was one of fiery jealousy but it was one he was not entitled to. Entitlement or no, he felt it acutely. And it flung him into a black rage.

Going out, slamming the empty room's door behind himself, he let Violetta know he had to go into town – he fabricated an emergency – and taking his car, sped towards anywhere that wasn't near her.

He found himself on the empty sand of the beach and couldn't remember how he had got there. The sea was a dull grey, foaming against the storm that had rattled the country over night. While she had been fucking her husband a storm had been throwing itself lustily against the windows. The image was too much to bear.

For the first time, his back against the cliffs and his body facing the wide and angry sea, he cried. He cried because he pitied himself and hated himself too. He hated what he had done to her and to them.

And he hated what she had done.

Of course, he knew why she'd done it. He wanted to be happy because of it too but the betrayal seemed worse.

Determined to speak to her, he was back at the palace just before noon. Like a phantom or intruder, he waited in a recess between her apartment and the doors that led to the palace proper for over an hour. He didn't understand the theatricalities of it, why he simply didn't just steal into her rooms and confront her there. He knew though, if she was prepared, she wouldn't speak to him.

He heard the clack of her heels, and her heels alone, on the marble floors. Reaching out he grasped her arm and pulled her into the recess with him. The look of fright on her face rendered him momentarily guilty but then it just made him angrier. He knew the grip on her arm was bruising and sore and that her flinch was entirely justified.

"You fucked him?"

She blanched, stuttered, scrambled for, and lost track of any response.

"You didn't tell me?"

She looked suddenly furious, "Don't ever speak to me like that."

"I thought we were past trivialities," he growled, "Didn't you know you'd slept with someone who'd clambered from the gutter? You didn't even had the guts, the courtesy, to tell me! You slept with him and you didn't tell me."

She simply stared at him and it was the disgust on her face that made him realise how awful he'd been, "Clarisse, I –"

"I fucked him," she spat, "For our child. I could never have told you, because you would have talked me out of it. Because you make everything impossible! This way, I do not lose my boys, I do not lose my child. The only person I lose is you…and right now, that appeals. I _fucked_ him because I had to."

The absolute venom in her words, the fury and the rage which emanated from her mouth with that foul curse, was all the more startling for the fact he'd never seen it before.

Turning on her heels, she didn't even look back. He slumped against the wall and listened to the hasty retreat and the slam of her chamber door.

He deserved her hatred and her anger. He knew that.

 **-0-**

Shuddering, she stumbled into the cool darkness of her bedroom. It seemed hardly worth it now, for him. She hadn't enjoyed it, she hadn't wanted the hot scotch breath and unskilled hands. She had done it because she had committed the worst of the sins and she had to atone in some manner.

Naively, she had thought she would make him happy by doing this. It was the only way to ensure the safety of their child.

Collapsing to her knees she wrapped her hands around the cool ceramic of the toilet just in time to vomit profusely.

"Your Majesty?"

She was too weak to answer, her voice giving out before she could make a sound. Violetta was at her back then, a hand caressing her in the way her nanny had when she was a child. She was sobbing openly now, her tears mingling with vomit and spit. Her assistant slipped her hand round to her lapels and pulled her jacket off, then she slid down onto her knees on the cold tiles beside her queen.

"I've been such a fool," she sobbed, chin perched on the seat.

Violetta said nothing but she pulled her into her embrace, holding her there as she curled up on the beautiful marble.

"When you're ready, you should sleep."

"I am frightened I won't wake up," she said, "I'm so frightened I don't want to."

"Let's get you to bed."

She scooped her up then, pulling her and jamming her surprisingly strong arm around Clarisse's hip. She guided her towards the bedroom, the cool satin sheets that beckoned her.

"Please don't say to him…"

She didn't really know to which 'him' she was referring to.

"I won't," Violetta pulled back the sheets as Clarisse stumbled out of her shoes and fell onto the bed, "I will cancel your appointments."

"Thank you Violetta."

"You're welcome Your Majesty," she whispered, pressing a cool cloth she had miraculously produced to Clarisse's forehead.

She fell into fitful sleep then and dreams of monstrous little children filled her head.

 **-0-**

He had never known a situation where he couldn't fix things. His behaviour had been so deplorable that he couldn't begin to imagine a way to escape what he'd done. He poured himself a siezable scotch, though his shift wasn't over, and began packing a bag of things that made no sense. The photo from the boys, the silk tie, a pair of shorts, dress shoes. There was a rattling knock on his door, forcing him to pause his nonsensical packing.

On the other side, it was Violetta.

Without being invited in, she walked and let him shut the door behind her.

"You've just made a dreadful situation, for her, worse," she said quietly.

He didn't have to ask what she meant, he already knew.

"She's not someone you can do that to. She's a human being."

He said nothing still.

"You have to make this right," she said, "Otherwise I don't know what she'll do."

He finally broke his silence.

"She slept with him."

"Yes, because she was doing what _you_ wanted. Whether or not you said that to her. I don't need to hear it to know she has compromised everything for you. It seems underwhelming to suggest you should cut her some slack but that's all I can say. You are as much to blame for this as her. I saw it in your eyes, in her eyes, in Spain, what you intended to do. It's been there for as long as I have been here. Now you've both done it and you have to live with the consequences. It's not just about you now, or her, or even that child. It's about two young men and a country. It is so much bigger than her sleeping with her husband."

She turned to go then, slamming the door behind her. He sunk into the couch and wondered if he had any more tears to cry. Reaching for the pen and pad on the table, he wrote his child a list of all the reasons why he loved their mother. Once he was done, he folded it in the small wooden box he kept under his bed. Then he took up the pad again to commit something far more difficult to paper.

 **-0-**

She woke up in the silence of dawn. Physically she felt better and she felt emotionally better too, until it all came flooding back to her. With a groan she rolled over, as if being battered by the invisible horror of it all. Underneath her hand there was a letter. She recognised the hand-writing, the sensible and neat hand in dark ink. She didn't have the strength to read it, so she stowed it in her dresser drawer and took a shower.

The thought of it haunted her through the morning and by noon she had excused herself from her meeting to open it.

 _I can't begin to apologise for how I spoke and how I behaved. I had no right to treat you like that. You made a decision I was too afraid to make and you're braver than me for it. I don't expect you'll forgive me Clarisse, but I want you to know that I won't ever forgive myself either. I am truly sorry._

 _Joseph_

Setting it aside, an urgency she hadn't known for weeks came over her. She found him in the silence of the garage, aimlessly polishing an already pristine bonnet.

He looked up at her, his eyes an agony of apology.

"I want you," was all she said, as if the words were coming from someone else entirely.

"Here?"

He stepped back. She knew there were no cameras here, no one would come in here when he was in an undoubtedly awful mood, and a madness had invaded her body.

"Here."

"I am so sor-"

I never want to hear those words again," she whispered, letting her jacket fall onto the hard concrete below.

"Clarisse…"

"Do you love me?"

"Of course," he touched her face.

"Then understand that I need you just now," she whispered, hands shaking against the buckle of his belt, "And that whatever happens, I'll always need you."

 **-0-**

It was gritty and feral, this and now. But it was what she needed. He supposed it was what he needed too.

Afterwards, when the hot smell of oil and dust was bound to her half-naked skin, he pulled her into the cool darkness of the limo. He needed to speak to her; holding her, having her, was not enough to confirm that, in some way, she was still his.

He hadn't noticed it before but now that her shirt was undone and it was only the tight material of her skirt, her stomach had curved minutely. It left him breathless and his hand, as if of its own volition, rubbed the material.

"It will be okay," she whispered, her voice shaking over the lie.

"How does it feel?"

"Lovely, really," she placed her hand over his, "It's lovely, really. To know that there's someone you've made."

"I love that you're carrying my child," he admitted, wondering if it was an insensitive thing to say.

She was silent for a moment.

"So do I," she said softly, turning her face away from him and he knew what was coming next, "But no one can know. And Joseph, between us, this has to be the last time."

He had known she would have to say this. And she was right. He was risking his child, and her, if they continued this. He hadn't wanted it to be their last time, in this horrible and dark place, but he supposed he had condemned them to this.

"I know Clarisse," he said softly, "No one will ever know. And I won't…I won't ask you again."

"It will be the only way to ensure our child's safety, you understand?"

"I do," he muttered, trying to keep his voice even as tears threatened him, "When will you tell the King?"

"Soon, as soon as it is believable. I won't ever be with him again. I promise you."

"You don't need to promise me. I was wrong."

"Perhaps I don't need to promise you," she said, "But I need to reassure myself. I don't think I've ever felt so…"

He waited for her to say something that would kill him but the words didn't come.

"Felt so?"

He knew she needed to speak and he owed her his attention and comfort. Despite the fact he didn't want to hear it, he supposed he didn't have a choice.

"Cheap. I felt cheap. What else are you supposed to feel, going between the man you love and the man you are married to?"

"I am sorry you felt like that, I'm sorry I made you feel like that."

"You were angry and that, I understand entirely. Joseph, if I'd said what I planned to do you wouldn't have let me, or you'd have sat getting furiously drunk while I did what I had to do and all the while you would have been so angry. I could not do that to you. I couldn't have gone through with it knowing you knew. This way, it was easier to convince myself I could do it. It was easier to do it when you did not know."

He was silent because there was nothing to deny or refute about what she said.

"He doesn't deserve you," he said finally, "And nor do I."

"You love me," she said, "And that's all your jealousy of yesterday confirmed. Unhealthy as it may be, your jealousy is born out of incredible love. My panic, my fear, is that you will let it eat you. What about when he presents our child to the world as his own, as he must, or they call him papa. What then? Will you hate me then? Worse, will you hate the child?"

"No," he vowed but he knew it was a lie.


	15. Part 2 - One

**Author's note:** Thank you for all your support and reviews. I am very grateful for them, truly.

* * *

Part 2

Princess Anna Maria Claudia Mathilde Josephina Mignonette Renaldi was born into the world on a cool April morning, the weak sun bathing the room in a light that didn't justify the happenings within. The Head of Security was in Spain, on personal leave, when it happened. As was intended, as was planned. He was as frightened as she was at how he would react when King Rupert held the beautiful, ebony-haired little girl and presented her to the world on the steps of the hospital. So they had planned his 'family emergency' to coincide with her due date – primitive, but effective. Rupert hadn't even disputed it when Joseph had left.

A shock pregnancy – but not uncommon in older women, or indeed royal families of Europe – was a celebration for the country and a personal agony for the parents of the child. The only person who couldn't see that was the king.

So the first time Joseph Romerro saw his child it was on the television, while he made quick work of a bottle of rum and let himself be comforted by Andre.

"She's yours," Andre had eventually said, on day two of Joseph lying on the couch in their house on the outskirts of Madrid.

He knew his stupor was pissing Maria off but he couldn't do anything about it. He could barely lift himself to shower. Coming away, he'd thought, would be best. Now it looked a hell of a lot like running.

"I'm thinking of selling my apartment," he muttered blearily.

"Just answer me."

"Well, she isn't his," he'd said, motioning to the King who cradled the little bundle.

Clarisse's eyes were sad and it was hard to watch. It was hard to watch for so many reasons.

"Do you need to go back?"

"I have to," he said, "But she asked me to leave. She asked me to go, just for the time she was due. I wasn't there for her birth. I wasn't there for my baby's birth."

Andre shook his head wordlessly, "You're dying, Joseph. Slowly."

"I love her so much," he muttered, "And now this. Now this."

"She will break you."

"I'm so trapped," he whispered, "And I'm exactly where I wanted to be. Before I left, she told me she loved me. Do you know how that feels? To know she loves me."

"But it's not good for you."

He could hear the frustration in his friend's voice.

"It doesn't matter."

He thought back to the months of her pregnancy, of the whispered touches and the secret smiles and the electric but conservative contact that they had endured. It had been enough to sustain them. Rupert had perked up and though shocked, the boys had come round to the idea of a little sibling quite astonishingly. The king had not, according to Clarisse, questioned the little surprise. It had all been too good to be true. And now this; the feeling of falling at a million miles an hour as the king took Joseph's family to himself. He would never hold the woman he loved again, never make love to her. He would never introduce his daughter to his family or tell her how much he loved her.

"Does the king know?"

"No," he assured himself, "No."

Andre looked at him skeptically.

"Are you sure?"

He shrugged and took up his glass, "Toast the birth of my baby, Andre. Toast the birth of Anna Renaldi."

The pity in his friend's eyes was enough to make him want to weep.

 **-0-**

She had forgotten the initial exhaustion following childbirth and having a nanny didn't seem to help at all. She was sore and weak and felt as if she might never get back from the tiredness she felt. It wasn't just the exhaustion of labour or a baby either, it was the fraught sleeplessness of willing his return. She had thought it a wise idea to ask him to go but now that the baby was here, she felt the miss all the more. Their child was so pleasant in her arms, so quiet and restful and she wanted him to feel that contentment too, no matter how short-lived it would be.

She had been sitting on the rocking chair, facing towards the window and the long gravel drive of the park. Rupert had visited this morning, doe-eyed and freshly in love with the baby. It had made her nostalgic for what she once thought he was; for the man who had been filled with excitement at Pierre's birth.

Her body was a mess; soft and flabby and exhausted. Anyone that claimed pregnancy was solely a joy was deluded.

"Your Majesty," Violetta entered the room, closing the door softly beside her, "Your Majesty. Colonel Romerro is back."

"Thank you Violetta. Would you ask him to visit me, here?"

She wanted to kiss Violetta for her infinite kindness, the words she did not say and the things she did in a silence that Clarisse felt safe in. She cooed a little instead to the baby in her arms, who had awoken at her voice.

"Of course."

"Violetta?"

Her secretary stalled on the way out the door and turned.

"I will never know how to thank you."

"You don't have to," the other woman said quietly, "You don't have to."

He was there a few minutes later, peering around the door like a shy child. From here, even, she could see he was shaking.

She tried to smiled, tried to hide her nerves, "I have someone here who wants to meet you."

And quickly he was on his knees beside her, his jacket still on. His large hands gently caressed the soft woollen blanket, then the little cheek.

"I can't – "

Words failed him and she knew she had to be the one to offer strength here.

"She is your daughter. I can't promise one day she will know that. But she will know how much you love her. I don't doubt it. And she will know, one day, how much I loved her father."

"Everything is impossible," he looked up and there were tears in his eyes.

"Hold her," she said gently, "Here she is and she proves nothing is impossible."

He laughed a little with amazement as he took her in his arms. Clarisse wondered if this was how it would have been in another life. She liked to fantasise she'd met him on a pier, when they were just young, and she'd only ever had the title of Mrs. Romerro. Right now, it was all she could do.

"She's the best secret I'll ever keep," he murmured, lips caressing her tiny brow.

"Our secret," she smiled but she felt sadness in the lines of her own face.

"Clarisse, can I hold you?"

For a second it hurt that he felt he needed to ask.

She nodded silently and motioned him to the window seat. Wrapped there, in his arms with their child pressed between them, it felt like a dream that had mutated and warped somewhere it wasn't meant to.

"I love you, I love you both so much."

"I know," she whispered, "But-"

"Just once, let me say it one last time."

She nodded quietly again, and tried to swipe away her tears. He stopped her though, his fingers deft on her hands.

"It will be okay."

"Yes, it will."

* * *

 **So what did you think? The turn in events you expected, or not? I think I prefer this part of the story, and what comes next more. Please review if you have time!**


	16. Part 2 - Two

**Author's note:** A huge thank you for the reviews you've left. I want to say a particular thanks to those who have reviewed but not logged-in. I message those who do and I can't do so for you so thank you. If you're reading and haven't reviewed, thanks for that too, as I'm assuming you're enjoying it. You may well be despising it but thanks nonetheless for taking time to read!

* * *

He settled back into his life and back into the palace quickly. When he was here he couldn't drink and he couldn't remain in any sort of stupor, there was no time to stupor. Two new staff members to train and the young prince heading off to college in the States kept him busy. He saw her every day, and it meant he saw the child every day too. It wasn't what he wanted but it was certainly better than nothing.

And god, was his daughter wonderful.

She was crawling now, pudgy legs jutting onto the carpet as she explored on her hands and knees. He'd jumped at the chance to watch her, while Clarisse and Rupert spoke to Pierre. He sat in the centre and watched as she crawled back and forth from him, her face pink with endeavour.

"Anna," she crawled up, her little face raised expectantly to his, "My little Anna."

She had unruly hair, still as ebony as the day she was born.

"I write letters to you every day," he smiled and she gurgled as he pulled her onto his knee, "I do."

She reached up to paw his face, her soft little hand catching on his beard.

"I do. Just for you. A list of why I love your mother, a letter about my childhood, a letter-"

The door of the nursery swung open and the nanny, only appointed when the princess was born, stood in the frame.

"Colonel Romerro," the nanny made a beeline for Anna, arms open to scoop her up.

"No," he shook his head, "I shall do it."

The nanny didn't take a step back but she clasped her hands in front of herself.

"Did you put the princes down often when they were infants?"

She hadn't yet learned that in the pecking order of the palace, the only people above Colonel Romero were the royal family. He didn't like her, though he was nothing but polite to her, and he didn't trust her.

"The youngest prince was nine, the crown prince eleven when I first arrived here," he answered, "But there were occasions when I put them to bed, even as boys."

The nanny merely nodded, "I'll take the princess now."

"Do you think I'll do her harm?" Anna fussed in his arms, aware of the tension in the air and started to gurgle her distress, "Shhh," he lifted her onto his shoulder, "Shhhh, Anna."

"Princess," the nanny muttered.

He threw her a dirty look and stood, the child still in his arms. She had calmed now, her little cheek pressed against his chest, her thumb stowed in her tiny pink mouth.

"You are the Head of Security, not the nanny."

"No, you're right," he made towards the nursery, "But the queen asked me –"

At that moment the door opened again, "Joseph, please tell me she's not-"

The queen stopped dead when she saw the nanny there too, her arms outstretched. Clarisse stood up a little straighter, all of her pregnancy weight gone in favour of the tight suit she now wore. Her look was immediately sharp and critical.

"Camille, is there a problem?"

"No, Your Majesty," the nanny dropped a polite curtsey, her arms falling to her side.

"Oh good," she came towards Joseph then, the whiff of her perfume coming before her.

It was terrible, he realised, that the scent still caught him to make his legs weak. He hadn't touched her since the baby had been born, apart from to kiss the back of her hand as he always did. But he was always paralyzed by memories and he'd stopped doing even that now. Sometimes be caught her looking at him and knew she thought about it too. Then a glaze of indifference would slide across her face and she'd smile politely and he'd have to think of Anna, because Anna was the only thing he could think about without feeling as if the world was coming apart.

She took their child from his arms and the baby giggled, a little fist coming out to touch her mother's cheek.

"You were just about to put her down?"

"Yes ma'am," both staff answered.

"Ah, Camille, I had asked the Colonel to do it tonight. Didn't I say?"

The nanny's silence was as good an answer as any.

"I quite forgot, forgive me Your Majesty."

"No harm," Clarisse answered, swinging the child gently, "But the Colonel will do it. It's important he knows the children, after all he is the one who will make sure they come to no harm."

It was said with such finesse, even to him it sounded plausible.

Isn't it important you know Joseph?" She asked the gurgling baby, "Of course it is."

Then handing Anna back to him, she smiled at the nanny.

"You may go. We'll see you in the morning."

When she was gone there was a small pause. When they were alone now it was hard to ignore the charge of something unsaid in the air. They were crumbling; he could see it every time they were together. She was ashamed to look at him and he was as equally ashamed to look at her.

"How did it go with Pierre?"

She gave a minute shrug, "I'm exhausted."

"That bad?"

"No," she shook her head and sat down, "Just…it was just…Rupert is very stressed. Pierre will continue his study of theology but he won't go to seminary, or indeed abdicate, until Phillippe is finished school in America. It's a very long, drawn out resignation I suppose."

"I see," he nodded, settling back on the floor with Anna. Her eyes drooped with the beginning of sleep, "Will Rupert stop by the nursery?"

He asked because he didn't want to see Rupert fawn over the baby. Sometimes, he thought, it was just for show. Then he convinced himself it was his own paranoia. Rupert did not, _could not_ , know. He wouldn't have maintained the charade of loving father for so long had he known she wasn't his own. The thought curdled Joseph's innards.

He could cope with the shame, the scandal, but he didn't think he could cope with watching Clarisse's world unravel. She would never see her sons again, most likely, and she would live a life of shame and exile. He wondered, just for a bitter second, how many bastards Rupert had sired. It didn't matter though; being queen wasn't the same as being king.

"No," she rubbed a hand over her face and pulled off her jacket, "No, he won't. He has-"

She stopped short as he nodded his understanding.

Before he could say anything comforting or insulting or pleading she started again, "Let's put her down."

She let him go about organising the baby's things, her little gown and cot, the mobile above it which played lilting but tinny music at the same time. She simply stood by the window watching him and he couldn't help but watch her too, in-between settling their child.

"I write her a letter every day you know," he said softly, placing a now sleeping Anna in the cot, "I can't ever give her them but…"

"It helps," she finished for him, "I dream about you, night after night."

It was as if someone else was speaking. It was not the queen – it was the woman who had spent a weekend with him in Madrid. Her voice did not sound the same. It was the deep, lilting quality with which she'd once said his name.

"I thought it would end one day, that it would stop hurting," she kept her eyes trained on the October night outside as she continued, "But it doesn't. What do your letters say?"

"Inconsequential things," he whispered, "Mostly. Some though…some…"

The moonlight poured in through the window, coating their whispers with silver light. He wondered how it would feel to hold her again. Where he noticed she'd lost weight, he saw now she was thinner than ever. He saw now what he had done to her.

"Some?"

"Most of them tell her just why I love her mother so much," he kept his eyes focussed on their sleeping daughter.

"You should go, before you hate me," she said slowly, "Because I don't think I could handle that."

"I could never hate you Clarisse," he said softly, over the music from the mobile, "All I can do is love you."

"That has to turn to hate," she said simply, "It just has to."


	17. Part 2 - Three

**Author's note:** Thank you so so much for all your reviews. Again, there has to be rain before sunshine and all that...please stick with it.

And review too, if you'd like.

* * *

The snow was gathering on the edges of the windowsill, clumping in powdery little hills. Her daughter, a small and perky three, was gurgling and babbling to her toys in front of the fire. Her sons were arguing lightly over the merits of space travel and her husband was sitting beside the fire, cigar in one hand and engrossed in a book. There was a fragrant Christmas tree, encircled by abundant gifts and spicy eggnog and sinful Florentines.

What a perfect sight, she thought, if only, Clarisse, you liked knitting.

She let a bitter smile alight on her lips for a moment.

She had been so angry with him before he had gone home. Since he'd left the winter palace two days before, and left her in this world of isolation, she'd been trying to fathom what had prompted such blazing anger in her. It was such an acute fury that she hadn't shared it with him. Instead she'd smiled blandly and bid him farewell and pushed furious tears back as she watched him go.

It made her overflow with discomfit to realise that it was abandonment she felt.

And the feeling was as bizarre as it was unwarranted.

"Excuse me a moment," she murmured, "Please watch Anna, gentlemen."

All quiet, because every time they'd opened their mouth in the last few days she'd all but devoured their heads, they nodded their assent.

The winter palace was deathly quiet and she moved along the marble halls uninterrupted. Apparently Joseph had warned his staff to give her as wide a berth as she so obviously wanted before he departed for home.

But she didn't want a wide berth at all. From him, she wanted a closeness she'd never known before or after him. And instead he'd gone home, gone to the life he'd once promised her. He was moving on, pulling away, settling back into his routine of occasional visits home and quiet walks and sad smiles.

She took the heaviest fur coat she owned from the cupboard and slipped it on as if it was armour.

She slid out of the huge doors and into the grounds. Here, at least, she could pretend she was free. Because pretending was all she did now. Right behind her, Anton shuffled through the thick snow. He kept the distance he was supposed to keep as if she were a virulent danger.

It had started, the animosity, at Anna's third birthday.

There was no deep need to search for the moment it turned sour. She needn't look far. It was as inevitable as she'd told him, the turning of a tide long overdue.

He had shouted at a child who had become too boisterous at her party and pushed Anna in his infantile excitement. Joseph had roared at the little boy in the most absurd manner and the child had sobbed for hours, literally hours, afterwards.

She still cringed, heating up under the fur, at the memory. The entirety of the adults gathered had looked at him in an appalled fashion and he had simply glared and scooped Anna up. Rupert had laughed, actually laughed, and started the music again as if it was simply a trifle.

She'd watched Joseph tending gently to Anna's scuffed (but perfectly fine) knee and knew he wasn't able to control it anymore, to pretend like he was supposed to. He was her father in that moment, in front of a suspiciously ignorant room, and it was glaringly evident.

And over the following months that had become increasingly problematic. He was losing any sparkle, any humour he'd once had. He was losing the ability to hide, to lie, to pretend that nothing had gone between them.

It pained her to say that the man she loved was receding into the background of this aggressive, on edge brute.

The snow was falling thick and fast, weighing down her heavy coat even more. For one delicate moment she imagined lying down in the snow and never getting up again. She imagined the bitter cold becoming a gentle heat until nothing more remained.

Perhaps the only mark she would leave was her jealousy. Her jealousy that he'd gone without her.

Because Clarisse hadn't really believed that, three years down the line, she'd still be in the self-same position. She had been vocal, too emphatic, about it remaining exactly as it had to be while all the time hoping for a miracle that would set her on the path she was supposed to be on.

She'd though: just another few months and I'll get strong enough to tell Rupert, we'll be together, we'll be with Anna. I won't be queen but the boys will forgive me.

I will forgive me.

She'd starved herself of his affection and love and now it was eating her from the inside out. And he'd gone off to Spain to lead the life he had, the life apart from her.

Because she wasn't even a part anymore, not really and it was, without question, her fault.

Yet she blamed him because she was irrational and miserable.

Clarisse had been irrational and miserable from the moment she'd returned from Madrid and so had he…he was just better at disguising it.

 **-0-**

Joseph knew, very clearly, that he was drinking too much. They had returned from church in the early hours, where before he'd already drank too much, and now he was polishing a bottle of Amontillado without so much as a concern for the taste. The farmhouse was seething with people, warm and humid. He'd slumped at the dining table, leaving behind the majority of the extended family and affectionate hangers on.

He felt uncomfortable and clumsily fished his wallet and loose coins and his I.D. badge from his back pocket. Then he took another gratuitous slug of the sherry.

"That was for everyone," his sister Rita snarked as she passed behind him with a plate of meats.

He muttered an insult under his breath and took another swig. He reached ungracefully for the wallet and used one finger to flick it open to reveal a photograph of his little girl.

Her little girl.

He couldn't believe she was his, that he'd made her in a mad moment that reverberated, now, through everything they did. In the picture she was in her mother's arms. It was pathetic really. He'd not had the balls to ask Clarisse for a photo of them, even though he was entitled to have a photo of his daughter, so he'd cut it out of one of the gossip magazines and stowed it away in the wallet he used when he was on leave.

Like a typical father but one who had to keep his daughter and her mother a filthy secret.

He felt tears start to prickle – a sensation so familiar now that he'd learned the best way to fight it was to think of her, giggling and gurgling, and tell himself she was worth it. Her very breath was worth it.

He heard footsteps behind him, then the kind voice of his oldest friend.

"C'mon old man," Andre murmured, "You need some air."

He let his friend manhandle him into the cool night, stumbling over the uneven steps of the back courtyard as he went.

"C'mon," Andre urged again, "It's Christmas."

Joseph laughed but it was hollow, as if the intention to laugh genuinely was not enough.

"I used to love Christmas."

Andre groaned a little and levered him onto the ground, so they were facing away from the horses' paddock and onto the villa. The view out into the bay was breath-taking, the hills climbing around them.

"I wanted to bring her here. I wanted to bring her and our daughter here."

"Do you think she ever considers what this does to you?"

He was surprised by the vehemence in his friend's voice, the anger that hadn't been there a second before.

"Andre-" he slurred.

"I mean it, have you ever told her?"

"It's not like that, she's not like that," he defended feebly, "I don't want you thinking that."

His friend quietened a moment then reached out and pulled him against him, so they were embraced and Joseph was curled into his chest.

"I feel so fucking sorry for you Joe," his friend said, "And that's the gist of it. You were always a fool for a beautiful girl."

"I love her," he grumbled, "I can't live without her. If I could live without both of them, I'd have left a long time ago."

His friend nodded.

"Magda's coming this way," his friend sat him up again and offered him a hadkerchief to wipe his face with, "Look presentable."

He was grateful for Andre for saving him from Magda's ever-pragmatic, sensible wrath.

"Hey," she kicked the sole of his upturned shoe and then chucked something into his lap.

It was his wallet.

He was too drunk though to do anything but stow it away in his pocket.

"Andre," she motioned with her head to the farmhouse, "Do you mind?"

Joseph didn't want his friend to leave and so he gripped his arm.

"He's drunk right now," Andre murmured.

"Andre, I wasn't really asking," his younger sister said blandly, "Go on."

"I don't want to talk Magda."

She bent down, "And that's why you're a train wreck."

Beside him Andre stood up and began to brush damp grass from his jeans.

"Please don't doctor me Magda. I-"

"My old friend," Andre squatted down and placed a gentle hand on Joseph's shoulder, "Maybe it's time to unburden yourself to someone. I mean, who else can you trust but Magda?"

"You're my little sister," he directed his words toward her, "You don't need to know this."

She looked so miserable for a moment, "I already know."

He let his head fall forward as she replaced Andre on the grass beside him, her back resting against the paddock fence too.

"She's very beautiful," Magda murmured finally, "Your little girl."

"Is there any point in pretending she's not mine?"

"No."

"Alright," he tipped his head back so it fell against a wrung. The sky was glorious with stars.

"Alright," she agreed, "What else?"

"I'm fucking dying inside," he said plainly, "I'm curdling and rotting and dying."

"That's not very healthy," she answered, sounding so much more like a doctor that she obviously intended.

"And I'm in love with another man's wife," he held out his fingers, counting the reasons for his misery as he went, "And she is the queen of a country and she has two sons she can't leave and she won't even look at me and she hates me. And I can't remember it, no matter how hard I try."

"Remember what?"

"How she feels in my arms," he was heavy with booze and maudlin and he knew he sounded pathetic.

"You need to let that go," Magda said after a moment of considered silence, "Whether or not there is mutual desire to rekindle whatever _it_ was, it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter if it was undying love or if it was just sex. You both have a child to protect from your mistakes now. You need to face up to that."

"I am trying, we both are," he knew it was as true an assessment of her as it was of him, "Magda, you can't breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even Matthias. I mean, she could be charged with treason. I could."

Magda looked him squarely in the face, "You know how ludicrously selfish you sound, right?"

He nodded silently.

"Maybe if you and Her Majesty hadn't been hell-bent on each other, you wouldn't have to think like that. But by the sounds of it, by the looks of her, you're both as insufferable as the other. It was stupid of you to do something without realising the consequences but you have. God Joe, accept it. She's never going to be your wife and that little girl is never publically going to be yours and you knew that from the minute you decided to sleep with her. Those were the caveats and you ignored them."

He was so horrified by the clarity of her assessment that he couldn't answer.

"Do you hate me?"

He eventually asked, eyeing his little sister's profile.

"No," she said softly, "No, I pity you. I pity your queen and I don't even know her. But it's my niece I pity most of all."

He nodded, "Me too."

"No you don't," his sister said gently, "Your pity lies with the relationship you thought you could have. That's why you're feeling this way. Pity your daughter, turn your focus to her."


	18. Part 2 - Four

**Author's note:** Thank you, very much, for the reviews. This is when we get Anna's perspective for the first time and for me that was most fun (and really hard). So please review if you have a moment.

* * *

Anna had, from the moment she was born, been an unruly and curious child. Her father blamed it on her mama's softness, and Joseph laughed at her and said it was simply charm. Her charm, if she didn't move right now, would get her into a lot of trouble. She had gone in search of her mama, because she hated nanny brushing her tangle of curls - but it had grown quite out of control - and had heard voices in her father's study. Had it been mama's she would have gone straight in but she wasn't allowed in her father's study at all, so she slipped between the rich antique dresser and the jamb of the door and pressed her back to the wall.

Pierre walked past, nose in a book he'd brought home for his school in Rome, and simply hissed, "You shouldn't be spying."

But he winked and walked away anyway and she stuck out her tongue after him.

"A child? He has a child?"

Her father's voice was louder than ordinary as it carried from the office.

"Yes," her mother's voice was wearier still, "And the girl's an artist. Joseph said-"

"Always Joseph," her father interrupted, "Always at the centre of everything."

"It's hardly his fault! You sent him to America, need I remind you?"

Anna could tell from her mother's voice that she was losing patience and the icy silence just confirmed it. This was the soundtrack to her understanding of her parents' marriage; an icy word, a snarky joke, an occasional affectation. She hadn't yet found much to invest confidence in. Her brothers, though they were always away, showed her it would be alright when they were home. They laughed, most of the time, so she did too.

Wasn't that how it worked after all? She knew that if everyone was smiling, everyone was happy.

"Listen Rupert," her mother's weariness carried through the door, "We need to deal with this. This… this will blow up in our faces. A child, out of wedlock!"

"It won't be the first," her father said and the silence changed then.

Her mother let out a huff of fury and her voice rose, "For heaven's sake."

"It's a historical fact," he soothed, but it sounded like a lie, "You go to the U.S. Bring him home. No refusals. He has an annulment, the infant will want for nothing."

"You're sending me to do this alone?"

"What are you doing little princess?"

Anna startled at the interruption to her spying and she glowed with childish embarrassment when she looked to her side to see Joseph crouched beside her. She had been so absorbed, she hadn't noticed him sneaking up.

"Hi Joey."

"Joe, please. You shouldn't be snooping," he opened his arms and, as always, she climbed into them, "Come on."

"They were arguing," she whispered conspiratorially into his ear as they walked away.

His large body stiffened for a moment, "Don't be silly. They were simply talking."

He carried her towards his apartment – the biggest of the staff quarters – and a place she probably spent as much time as she did in her nursery or with mama.

"Why are you out of the nursery Anna, where is nanny?"

"I gave her the slip," she giggled, pulling back to look at his smiling face.

She traced her fingers along his goatee and he pretended to bite her finger.

"You shouldn't give nanny the slip," he chastised, though she could tell it was half-hearted.

He placed her down on the couch, "Milk? Cookies?"

"She'll come looking for me anyway," she clambered to the edge and, tipping herself upside down, lifted her legs to the top of the couch, "Nanny always finds me. Milk please."

She watched from upside down as he poured her a cool glass from his fridge.

"Princesses don't si-"

"Like that, I know," she giggled, "You sound like mama Joseph."

"How is mama?"

He sat down beside her and she could feel him watching her as she reached for the photograph she always went for when she found herself in his apartment. He'd stopped cleaning it now, it was so often sticky and smudged with little fingers, that there was no point.

"Mama is fine," she ran her fingers over the silver frame, "When I'm older can I keep this?"

He laughed, "Why?"

"Because she's pretty, your sister."

"She is, isn't she?"

"Yes," she looked at the picture again, then at his smiling face, "She has hair like mine."

His face was suddenly blank and it frightened her just a little. There was nothing there precisely, and nothing which should have frightened her, but the emptiness on his face was scary nonetheless.

"Are you well Joseph?"

He smiled again, that beaming smile he kept only for her, "Yes. _You_ sounded like your mama there."

She nodded and took a gulp of her milk. He took the photo from her and even though she didn't want to give him it, something else had come into her mind.

"What does wedlock mean?"

"That's an odd question," he took the chess board from the drawer and motioned for her to lay them out, "Where did you hear that?"

"I heard papa saying it."

"Oh," he nodded, "it means that you are locked in a marriage. Wed and locked, see?"

She nodded, pleased she understood and always impressed that everything he did was wonderful. She could have stayed with Joseph forever.

"What colour do you want to be?"

"What do you think?"

He rubbed his goatee in a foolish fashion, smiling at her as he did so.

"Mmmm, black," she giggled.

"Of course princess."

"What's your job again?" She asked because she always forgot.

"Head of Security to the Royal Family," he examined as she went to lift a piece, "Is that really how you want to move?"

She considered, her own fingers fluttering over her pieces and then knowing what he was hinting at she changed her mind.

"Perfect choice," he praised.

"You're fantastic at teaching me chess," she answered, watching as he made his move, "You know nanny will come after me soon."

"Yes, if your mama doesn't come for you first."

She watched him as he moved, "Joseph, I love you."

Today, it seemed, was full of silence. He lifted his head then and she thought it was silly that she imagined tears in his eyes.

"I love you too Anna."

 **-0-**

Clarisse knew exactly where to find her daughter but she dawdled anyway, her heels clacking along the quiet marble. She wanted to give him time with her and she wanted to avoid him entirely. Because these days, there was a chasm between them.

She couldn't quite process the news Joseph had brought home with him and had spent the entire night tossing and turning in the satin of her bed sheets. She was the mother of a five year old, the grandmother of an infant. Amelia Thermopolis Renaldi. She had thought to go to Rupert and tell him the news in the middle of the night but she knew that would only anger him more. Instead she'd crept into Anna's chambers and, waking the sleeping child from her bed, taken her into her own. When times were hard, when the world crumbled, she buried her face in the ebony mass of curls and breathed in the scent of strawberries and remembered what she'd done to have her.

And the love she'd given up.

She wanted to ask her daughter to open her eyes because she had her father's eyes.

She stalled outside his apartment doors and listened to the voices within. They were playing chess and by the sounds of it, Joseph was letting Anna win. It was a pleasure to hear, the kind of noise that relaxed her. She settled then and raised her hand to give a listless knock.

"Yes?" He opened the door, "Oh, Your Majesty."

Joseph," her eyes met his and for a moment, it felt like nothing had ever felt better, "Have you seen the princess?"

She poked her head in the door and her daughter was nowhere to be found. She shared a smile with him. This was safe, this was the only time there were on the same page.

"No, ma'am."

"Hmmm," she nodded, "Perhaps you could tell her nanny was looking for her."

At that moment Anna jumped out from behind the couch, her limbs splaying out in a delighted starfish.

"Here mama!"

Clarisse feigned surprise, clutching a hand to her chest.

Joseph smiled, "Would you like to come in ma'am?"

"Only if I am not disturbing your game of chess?"

He was too quick to answer, "No, not at all Clarisse."

For the first time in years, she darted her hand out to touch his. When he had delivered the news to her the night before about Phillippe and the child she had cried but he had kept such a cold distance, his hands jammed firm in his pockets. She knew he was so angry at Phillippe, and no doubt had reacted terribly, but he couldn't bring himself to show any passion of emotion towards her.

It had disappeared slowly; the gentle caresses, the touches to her back as he steered her through the crowd, now he didn't even touch his lips to her hand as he bowed over it. In the present his fingers grazed hers though, clutching her hand for a moment longer. And it was she who dared herself; the thought of touching him, she had come to believe, was the only thing that would get her through this.

"How are you?"

He leaned in and asked the question he hadn't asked in so long.

"Tired," she whispered, "Rupert has not taken the news well."

"I didn't imagine he'd take it any-"

"What are you discussing?"

Anna squeezed her way between them, face expectantly looking up.

"How few manners you have," Clarisse scolded, only half serious.

Anna smiled bashfully, "Sorry mama."

"You are forgiven," she let her daughter pull her by the hand to sit on the couch in the centre.

"Take your shoes off ma'am," he said gently, "I know you're more comfortable like that."

"What will we do if nanny comes looking?" Anna asked, settling down at the half-finished chess game, unaware of the interaction now between her parents.

"We'll lie," Joseph answered and the impish smile he threw at Clarisse made her feel giddy in a way she hadn't for a long time.

"No, we won't," she curled her legs under herself then tipped her head back.

Silence then, apart from their giggles and laughs, carried her off into a sleep she didn't mean to fall into. Maybe it wasn't the silence, but the rightness of it all. Here was the world she was supposed to have and it was so massively outwith her reach.

Her slumber was only broken by his gentle voice and she didn't know how long she'd been there, "Clarisse, you need to wake up."

"Can't I stay with you?"

She was still half asleep but she knew they were alone because he used her name. His voice was gentle, a breath away from her ear. She hadn't meant to say it but she was caught off-guard, unarmoured in the half world of sleep.

"I wish."

"Do you remember once," she opened her eyes, "You told me you loved me?"

"Yes," he knelt at her feet as she sat up and then gently, reverently, slipped on her shoes, "Yes."

"Is it still true?"

"It will always be true. And I just hope, one day, you believe me enough to let me back in."

In bed, alone in a sea of fear and loneliness, she cried until sleep claimed her again.

* * *

Please, please, please review if you have time! I would love to know what you think, so far, of the little of Anna you've met.


	19. Part 2 - Five

**Author's note:** I am very very grateful for your support and reviews. I am so glad you like Anna; I found her a real challenge, and one that hasn't eased throughout the story. Please read and review if you'd like.

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Today she was seven. Seven already; his child, his little girl. He had woken early and, lying in bed, had taken up his pen and pad. This particular pad was fine linen paper, a sugar pink, and her current favourite colour. He hadn't kept count of the letters but the once small wooden box had grown into a large one, stuffed end to end with letters on a variety of colours and styles of paper. One was a bar napkin, written when he was drunk and miserable one night. It had become an addiction of sorts, his own free therapy. While he knew she'd never read them, he sometimes went back and read them to remind himself he wasn't mad or desperate.

It had been so long since he'd thought about it but today he wanted to write about that weekend in Madrid. An odd thing, he knew, to want to commit to paper for her seventh birthday. It wouldn't be detailed, or graphic, but he thought if he didn't write it he'd forget it altogether. It was slipping away from him slowly and quietly.

Romantically, he'd once thought that it would never leave him. He had believed it would remain as vivid as ever, that the feel and taste and smell of her wouldn't abandon him in his loneliness. But it had. The memory had aged and yellowed, curling at the edges till only fragments of the picture remained.

Because time didn't care for your emotions.

So he wrote it down in the most romantic terms he could imagine, filled in blanks that had appeared over the years, and then stowed it away in the box that she'd never have. Then he had to shower because it made him feel terror clinging to his skin.

Anna's real gift was propped up against the wall – a metal detector – wrapped and beribboned. She'd become convinced recently that there was treasure on the grounds of the palace and he'd grown tired of digging with a trowel. Anna was always searching, always looking for her next big adventure. Sometimes it enthralled him and at other times it panicked him; that much inquisition had to lead to misery. She'd love this gift, of course. And, with only Clarisse knowing, he'd transferred money into her trust fund via his Swiss account– as he did every birthday. Clarisse had told him not to but he was so frightened he'd have to go one day, or he'd lose this link, that he ignored her and did it anyway.

At this rate, Anna would be able to sustain herself in the life she was accustomed to ten times over.

Clarisse was angry with him for it. He knew it was fear that someone might questioned his generosity but she had been rude about it the night before and he had been impatient with her. He was tired of excusing the small things he wanted to do for her, for both of them, because of the fear they shared.

The palace was in the throes of preparing for a child's party. It wasn't the same as a ball – canapés replaced with candies, champagne replaced with apple juice, a band replaced by a C.D. player – so Joseph was amused that Clarisse had decided to use china to serve these things. He shook his head, swiping a slice of apple covered in chocolate from a silver tray.

"Joey!"

He turned to the chastising voice and laughed at the sight of her. It appeared her mother had wrangled her into a pretty party dress, hair tamed and tied into a satin ribbon.

"Joe."

If he'd let her call him Joey, it would have been a dead giveaway.

She giggled, "Joe, that's the party food."

He bowed, "Sorry princess."

"Forgiven," she smiled.

"Can I give you a birthday hug?"

"Why are you asking me?"

He pulled her into his arms. Taller and thinner, she'd lost all her childhood chubbiness. It hurt to hold her and realise that time was tricking them. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist.

"You're my favourite," she whispered in his ear, trailing her fingers across his goatee as was her affectionate habit.

"You're mine," he smiled, "A birthday dance, my little princess?"

"Oh, please good sir," she giggled again.

He knew there wouldn't any viable waltz music in the C.D. player on the table, so he started humming. Violetta, fussing with a flower arrangement at the far end of the ballroom, smiled at him for a moment but went back to her task. He gave a valiant attempt at the 'The Blue Danube' (her mother's favourite) and waltzed her around the ballroom, enjoying the sensation of his daughter and her happiness in this moment.

"My papa isn't going to be here today," she said slowly, "He has a meeting."

"That's alright," he answered, still moving with her and realising he didn't have a kind reply.

"I wish you were –"

"Princess," he was frightened about what she was about to say and knew he had to interrupt, "You look beautiful today."

"Thank you Joe."

Then he saw Clarisse, standing at the top of the stairs, from the corner of his eye. He pivoted to see her. She was watching them and she was so breath-taking and beautiful and sad looking that he faltered in his step and stopped, his eyes locked on her.

"And so does your mother."

It was out before he could reel it back in.

The little girl pulled back to look at him for a strange second, then to her mother on the stairs.

She smiled, "Yes she is beautiful."

"Are you dancing?"

He knew Clarisse had heard him but she didn't appear to let it trip her up. She floated towards them, the pretty satin dress dancing around her knees.

"You've managed to keep you dress clean, at least."

Clarisse leaned in and kissed her daughter on the cheek. She was so close, he could taste her perfume.

"Your brothers want to speak to you in the library," she said gently, "Go and see them."

"Yes mama."

When she had run out of sight, skidding at the top of the stairs and earning a sigh from Clarisse, they found themselves alone. He didn't know where Violetta had gone but between the queen arriving and the princess leaving, she had disappeared.

"Can we walk?"

"Of course."

The spring gardens were beautiful; the scent of new flowers was heady, with a sharp undertone of frost, the first grasses were growing too quickly to control.

"I owe you an apology," she said quietly.

He remained silent because he agreed.

"You are entitled to give her what you want," she said, "And I am sorry I lost my temper."

He threw her a sideways glance and realised how truly exhausted she looked.

"Have you noticed all we ever do is apologise to each other? It is as if we're still apologising for that first moment, as if we owe each other something huge."

She stopped walking and faced him to answer his question.

"Yes," she laughed without a hint of humour, "Yes, as it happens."

"I hate it," he continued, "I really do."

"Me too. We should stop it," she smiled as he nodded his agreement, "Seven, can you believe it?"

"Hardly," he shook his head and fell into step with her again, "Thank you, for loving her so much."

"It's easy," she answered, "Very easy. It is easy to love someone made out of love."

Her words were a balm she'd applied, ignorant to its healing impact. They were in the rose garden now, hidden from view and cameras.

"Will you hold me?"

He nodded, frightened his words would fail him if he said anything. He opened his arms to her and she stepped into them. She'd put weight on, he'd noticed and felt, and yet she was bird-like and frail in his arms. He buried his nose in her hair and smelled cotton and cherry-blossom.

"I miss you," she whispered against his collarbone.

"I miss you too," he rubbed her back.

"Maybe one day-"

"Don't. You're having a weak moment," he murmured, "So don't."

She just nodded and held him even tighter than he thought her capable of.

 **-0-**

Anna found her brothers in the library, though she had dawdled, and both were staring out of the window that looked onto the gardens. Their heads were bowed and they were whispering. They turned quickly though and broke apart when they heard her come in and Phillippe, scooping her into his arms, lifted her as if she were an aeroplane.

"It's the birthday girl!"

She laughed loudly as he swung her around the room.

"Put her down Pip," Pierre scolded, "Mama will kill you if she gets dirty."

"Get dirty, in this old dusty library? I don't think so," he threw her onto the couch beside Pierre and then flung himself down beside her.

She loved them and she didn't have a favourite, but Phillippe was certainly the more boisterous of her two much older brothers. Pierre was wise and quiet and sometimes silly but he lived far away and she didn't see him as much. He wasn't a prince anymore really, and Phillippe was now, so he was busy. The funny thing was he was busy and sad. She knew it was because of Amelia, but she never asked, because she hated to see hurt on his face.

"Mama said you wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes," Pierre smiled, "We have a gift for you."

Excitement tickled her stomach but she knew it was impolite to seem keen so she simply smiled.

"Really?"

"Ah yes," Pierre answered, pulling a book from under one of the plump cushions.

It was leather bound, in rich purple, and on it it said 'Princess Anna'.

"What is it?"

"The story of you," Phillippe answered, "We made it from all the press clippings and photos and other things. Like the song that was number one the day you were born or all the royal families of Europe who attended your Christening."

"Can I look?"

"Actually, no," Pierre answered, "Look at the time. It's nearly time for your party. We can do it tonight though. We'll get Joe to sneak us some coke and cake and we'll look at it."

"Can Joe stay?"

"Course," Phillippe answered, not looking at her, "Of course he can."

She was content then, and excited for her party and pleased with her gifts so far, and so she pulled them both by the hand from the library and down to her party.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. Please review if you have time.**


	20. Part 2 - Six

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for your reviews. This was, by far, my most favourite chapter to write (despite the fact that it's miserable). Please, please stick with it. We will eventually get back to Clarisse and Joe - because that's the thing I love writing most (along with plenty of angst).

Thank you to the guests who don't sign in but review, I can't say thank you personally so thanks. If you read but haven't reviewed please, please, please let me know what you think. This is my first really A.U. story and I'd love to know what you think.

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The habit of curiosity never left her but, as she grew older, she learned how to tame it. It was night time though and she couldn't sleep, fears of the first year of high school, in the elite Pyrus Academy, stealing most of her summer. She used to escape to the library on these nights, her pyjama legs pulled up because she was still small for her age. It was a huge room, with books from floor to ceiling. She spent a lot of time looking for information she couldn't find. Pulling the fur throw that lived on the chair by the fire, she trundled to the middle of the room and dumped it. Then she scrambled to the shelf beside the painting of her great grandmother, the shelf on which the history of the Renaldi family lived.

Her research, so far, had not been fruitful. Maybe it was because she had no direction or understanding of what she was going in search of.

And that frightened her even more. The older she had become, the wiser she had gotten to her own misgivings.

And they were terrible misgivings.

She had been half way through this book the night before, and was nearly finished her search for ebony hair and striking eyes, when the door to the library squeaked behind her. There was no point in trying to hide and whoever it was had already seen her so she pretended not to hear, pretended not to be breaking the rules.

"Anna."

Father's voice was never particularly warm but tonight it was boozy-laced, which made it sound warm at first. She didn't know where he had been, though she had her suspicions, but he always wandered around after bed and when he scooped her up he smelled not of mama's perfume, but of someone else's.

"Hello father," she attempted her best contrition.

"Anna," he shook his head and straightened up, though he was lopsided and had to lean against the bureau, "Anna you should be in bed."

"I can't sleep."

"You take that after your mother," he laughed, though it was dark and echoic.

She nodded, "Come and read with me?"

He moved slowly, like a man on a tight rope, and settled down on the blanket beside her. She tried hard not to breathe in the cocktail of cigars and brandy and that cloying perfume.

"What are you reading?"

"Renaldi history," she answered, holding up the book.

He seemed suddenly annoyed, "Why does it fascinate you so?"

She shrugged, "I want to know where I come from."

He nodded silently and watched as she read. The silence grew too much then and, even at eleven years old, she felt the need to fill it. She nudged closer to him but he seemed very far away.

"What do I take after you papa?"

His silence continued, "Nothing Anna, and you know why."

She felt sick in her stomach, then in her throat. Her eyes were woozy, her skin sticky and hot with a loss of innocence she had somehow always been on the edge of. The truth was all very sudden and so was her reaction to it.

"I'm sorry Anna," he stood up and she saw he was very sad, "I don't wish you any ill, but I don't wish you to search for something you'll never find. It's funny, you see, I love you more than I thought I ever would."

Then he stumbled out. She hated him after that, she hated him for telling her what she already knew. She ran to the nearest toilet and vomited, then cried, then went back to her bed and sobbed until she fell asleep.

The next morning she was awake at dawn. She watched from the balcony of her chambers as the Head of Security went for a run, as he always did. She often stood there watching him run. He always looked so entirely sure of himself, in command even of the gravel under his feet. When he was surely away she flittered through the halls like a little ghost – her hands grasping a pyjama leg each so she wouldn't trip. She didn't know what she was looking for but her curiosity, her need to know, overrode any plan she might have had. She pressed against the handle of Joseph's apartment door, well aware he never locked it.

It was neat and tidy and she went straight to the photograph, her photograph. She had mama's nose and her aristocratic mouth but nothing of father's. Nothing of Rupert. Renaldis had brown hair and green eyes and pale skin. She had skin made of caramel and ebony curls and strikingly blue, icy eyes which people always commented on. They said Anna had her mother's eyes but they either weren't looking close enough, or they were simply failing to see.

She had known, from when she was very little, how precisely she didn't look like a Renaldi.

And how much she looked like Magda, Joseph's sister, the lady in the frame.

And how, when she looked into Joe's eyes, she could only see her own.

She placed it down now perfectly, though there was no dust to disturb or give her away, and stood aimlessly as tears threatened her eyes.

She'd always wanted this to be true but now that it was there was a really terrible emptiness in her stomach. The other clues were falling into a terrible puzzle too; her brother's being too loving, her father not loving her enough, her mother fawning over her, Joseph worshipping her.

Too much love had pointed her in the direction of honesty.

She sat down on the floor for a moment, because the air had left her lungs and she couldn't force it back in, then crawled towards the bed. There was nothing under it; Joseph, Joe, Joey, the man who was her father, was too clever to keep something under the bed. There had to be some incriminating evidence somewhere; she had to be more than just a secret, a mistake, a princess who wasn't really a princess at all.

She rustled in the drawers, careful not to disturb the tidy and neat world of the Head of Security. There was nothing. There was nothing in the kitchen units or in his wardrobe or in his desk. Then she was rummaging in his bedside cabinet and there was only one thing there.

It was a plain oak box, with nothing but a brass latch holding the lid to the body of it so it was unlikely it was anything important. Fingers trembling, she flicked it open. It's going to be nothing, she told herself, but she knew right away it was something. The box was packed end to end with papers, neatly folded in half. There were pinks and blues, bar-mats and headed-slips. Hotel paper from as far away as London and as near as Pyrus. Consulate paper form San Fransisco and France.

And they were all addressed to her.

Her stomach churned with excitement and terror, tears and laughter.

'Dear Anna' written in neat cursive, black and solid on the page.

 _'_ _Dear Anna,_

 _You can't know how much I love your mother…'_

And she supposed she never could.

She had no time to read then, she realised, as she began unfolding a pastel-pink one snuggled at the side.

 _'_ _Dear Anna,_

 _On the occasion of your seventh birthday, it hurts to realise that I cannot tell you that your father wishes you a happy birthday…'_

She folded it quickly again, realising almost an hour had passed since she'd first entered his room. Fumbling she stowed the box away in the bedside table and knew she wouldn't have time to escape. So she dashed towards the couch and sat there, settling just in time for the door to fall open.

"Anna!"

He was clearly shocked.

She couldn't hate him, even though the revelation had bombarded her from all angles.

"What's wrong?"

His concern took on a different light now and she was angry at him for pretending he'd only been a caring staff member when it seemed out of balance with how much he cared. She understood now and felt smothered.

"Nothing," she lied, "I just wanted milk."

He smiled, "You can get that in the kitchen."

She shrugged, "I prefer it when you pour it for me."

"Alright," he smiled, "Alright. Anna, is everything okay?"

"Yes," she tried to swipe away tears that had suddenly surprised her, "I just wanted to see you."

And it was true. She was seeing him properly for the first time in her life.

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 **Please leave a reviews if you can. =)**


	21. Part 2 - Seven

**Author's note:** I am very grateful for the reviews of the last few days. I didn't intend to post this today but I love it and you've all been so encouraging so here it is as thanks!

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"I won't wear it!"

Joseph knew precisely who was screaming, from all the way down the royal chambers, before he had to think. He shook his head, not sure what he would do when he reached them both. He spent a lot of his time these days wondering what he would do when he got there. Had he been able to parent her in the way he would have, she would not be screaming down the corridor and slamming every door as she went. She wouldn't be speaking to her mother like that.

He wanted to say he wasn't sure when his daughter had become such a terror but it happened gradually and the culmination of her downfall had been at the beginning of this month, when Anna's maid had happened upon a bottle of vodka secreted in her dresser drawer. She was thirteen and hiding drink and listening to music that made even his liberal toes curl. She was remarkably clever at school but she hadn't been trying for months now. She was wearing ridiculous clothes and watching film she wasn't supposed to and giving her security the slip as regularly as she could.

All of these things a real father would have dealt with but he couldn't and it was beginning to eat him up.

It would be easier, of course, had she been a typical teenager. She wasn't. Her anger was a brand all its own. It had grown and mutated into something incandescent. And it would have been so much easier if he had been a typical father – but he wasn't.

He went towards the screaming match, setting himself up for whatever chaos he was about to meet. Clarisse was supposed to be with the Minister of the Interior just now and he had said he would stop by to escort her but he hadn't realised she'd be mid-battle with their daughter.

And their daughter was a meritorious foe.

"Anna," he heard Clarisse attempting reason but he knew it wouldn't work, "It is simply-"

"I'm not doing it," Anna cried back, "And you can't make me!"

He rounded the door of the family sitting room and stood.

"No," Clarisse looked defeated as she sat on the couch, her eyes scouring a piece of paperwork, "I lost any influence I had over you a long time ago."

He wanted to tell her that she might want to look at Anna when she was so disparaging but Clarisse, when she was particularly angry, tended to seem distant. He didn't think it was the best way to deal with Anna but he couldn't possibly say that to her. At least she was actively trying to stem their daughter's flow of fury.

"I'm not wearing it," Anna flung a bundle of soft pink wool, which unravelled into a dress and fell to the floor at his feet.

"I would pick that up princess," he nodded to the garment, "But I didn't throw it."

"Whatever Joe," she threw herself onto the couch, "This has nothing to do with you."

"Be quiet," Clarisse suddenly stood up, throwing the document she'd been reading aside, "Don't dare speak to anyone like that."

"I am not wearing it and I'm not going to the stupid church to worship a stupid God I don't believe in."

"No, I suppose you are not," Clarisse crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a scotch, "I suppose I have no power over you. I have no way to make you."

"No, you don't," Anna smirked, "You don't. You don't have anything to do with me."

Clarisse turned towards their daughter, "Anna, where did this contempt come from?"

"From you," Anna muttered, " _From_ you, _for_ you, for all of this fucking charade. So much contempt inside me. It's all your fault!"

"Anna!"

He was suddenly furious, as if it had been gathering in him and overflown. Clarisse startled, slamming her tumbler against the sideboard. Anna looked up, eyes wide and alarmed. Then she laughed but it was cold and spiteful.

"What the f-"

"Open your mouth one more time or speak to your mother like that and I swear I will leave you without a leg to stand on," he roared, his fists pulsing at his sides, "Am I clear?"

She looked dazed for a second, as if she wasn't aware of what was happening, but then she turned her face away. He would have sworn, for a second, he saw a smile before she did.

He looked at Clarisse, who turned her face away too.

"Fine but I'm not wearing the dre-"

"Anna," he didn't need to shout this time, "It is non-negotiable. Dress and Church."

"Fine!"

She launched herself from the chair she was sitting in and whipped past him, leaving a trail of indignation as she went.

When he turned back to Clarisse she had polished the tumbler off.

"Would you like one?"

She held up the glass.

"No," he shook his head, "The Minister of the Interior-"

She flourished a dismissive hand, "Cancel it."

He watched her pour another tumbler, "He's already here Clarisse."

She took a swig, "I am not going to meet him – two glasses in and with the feeling that I want a whole lot more – I am not in the mood."

"Fine, alright," he went towards the phone, dialled Violetta and told her to send the Minister away. With a resigned sigh, Violetta listened then hung up.

"You think I'm a bad host," Clarisse accused lightly as she sat down on the couch.

He held up his hands, "I said nothing."

She cocked an eye brow, "You don't need to say anything."

He stood where he had been since he came into the room. She moved to the couch though and slid her jacket off and kicked her shoes away. He caught himself staring, admiring, and shut it down almost immediately.

"Sit, you're making me feel uncomfortable."

He did as he was asked, settling across from her on the settee. She was fixing for an argument but he was too tired to go there. He could tell because she would bate him when she was like this. He'd learned not to bite…most of the time.

"Listen," he said softly, "I'm not prepared to sit here so you can fight with me. I'll keep you company all night if you try to resist that urge to argue."

She smiled crookedly, "It's boring that you know me so well."

"It's not," he said softly, "It's comfortable."

She nodded and smiled but then her face grew serious.

"You should not have chastised her."

"It worked, didn't it?"

She considered his counter for a moment, "Yes, it did."

"Well," he held open his hands, "I don't like her speaking like that…certainly not to you."

She nodded, "She's just so angry Joseph."

"It's inexcusable."

She swung her legs round onto the couch and crossed them primly at the ankles.

"Yes, it is," she rubbed her temples, "And I am at a loss."

"You and me both," he agreed.

"What were you supposed to be doing this evening?"

"Work then basketball," he smiled, "Well I did have basketball with the boys, until I came here."

She tipped her head to the side, "I am certain you could still make it."

"I don't want to," he shrugged.

She held up her glass, "Want one?"

"Bad idea."

"Why?"

Her smile told him she knew exactly why.

"Because it is."

She nodded her agreement, "I suppose it means you can cart me off to bed when I'm too drunk to do it myself. Are you sure I cannot tempt you?"

"Stupid question," he smiled darkly.

She looked serious for a moment, almost forlorn.

"You always have the knack of making me feel like the most sublime creature on earth."

"You are. I'm nothing if I'm not honest."

She smiled and took a more measured sip.

"Who was your first love?"

The question took him by surprise.

"You."

She laughed quietly.

"What?" He asked indignantly, despite knowing why, "You were the first woman I have ever really loved. My first and my last."

She closed her eyes for a second, then standing up, came towards his seat. He made room for her then, sliding along.

"Okay, I accept your answer," she set her glass down on the side table, "I shall rephrase for you. Who was your first girlfriend?"

He felt himself grin, "Emmanuella. We were six and she was in my class."

"Precocious," she laughed.

"First proper girlfriend you mean?"

She nodded her affirmation.

"I was fourteen and her name was Maria. I thought I was in love. I wasn't and she ended up dating my best friend after I cheated on her with a girl at the pier," he felt happiness as he recalled it, "Ten years later I was the best man at their wedding."

She shook her head, "You cheated?"

He felt himself grow cold at the memory; the first infidelity of many.

"I wasn't a good boyfriend…fiancé, lover," he shook his head.

"So this works for you, our little arrangement?"

He knew it wasn't an insult but he couldn't help but feel it that way too.

"I don't know how to explain it," he shook his head, "I'm not excusing it, by any stretch of the imagination. It was easier to walk away than it was to stay with those girls. With us…"

She looked thoughtful, "It isn't?"

He laughed darkly, "To any sane man, it would be."

She nodded and took a sip from her quickly emptying tumbler. He stood up, not sure what strange animal was possessing him and, taking it from her, filled it. It had been so long since they had spoken, just ordinarily, that even under these circumstances he was desperate for this time with her.

"She's so difficult."

He turned round and watched as she nervously examined the upturned palms of her hands.

"Rupert wants to send her off to finishing school as soon as he can."

"No," he found himself saying, not of his own volition, as he handed the glass back to her.

"I know," she nodded, "Do not worry. I've laid that particular beast to rest."

She pulled her legs up so he could sit beside her on the settee though there was a whole seat of space between them. She withdrew as if he might burn her and he wanted to grimace at her reluctance to be near him. He didn't, of course.

"You know," he observed casually, "This set-up is as bizarre as anything. You know that, don't you?"

She smiled spiritlessly and let her head fall forward, "Isn't that an underwhelming observation."

He laughed quietly.

"I know," he shrugged, "I don't know how else to say it."

"There is no other way to say it. You rescued me from our daughter tonight. I suppose I should thank you for that. In normal circumstances –"

"These aren't normal circumstances," he looked into the fire, "And I think it's taken me a very long time to come to terms with that."

"She's unhappy," Clarisse said suddenly, bringing their focus back, "And I don't know how to help her."

He nodded, "Neither do I."

There was a gentle silence then, laced with awkwardness that had imposed itself on them over the course of the years.

She examined the contents of her glass, as if they were incredibly interesting, "Has there been anyone else Joseph?"

It took a second to understand what she meant.

"No," he felt his stomach clench in a mix of indignity and love, "I have thought about it. And a few times…half-heartedly. I never manage it all the way to the bed. I'm stuck. I'm stuck in an apartment in Madrid nearly fourteen years ago."

She looked at him, "Sometimes I don't want to be here. I understand if you don't."

He shook his head, eyes still on the fire, "I've just told you; I'm stuck."

 **-0-**

Anna clawed her way to the back of the closet in which her multitudinous evening gowns lived. She had refused to let the maids clean it for fear they'd stumble across her hidden evidence. It wasn't as banal as a hidden bottle of vodka; it was a collection of her own evidence, lest she think she'd simply imagined the king's revelation of years ago. She pushed a satin evening gown out of the way, the one she would never have worn for it was extremely ugly, and pulled an old tattered box out. She'd banished the book her brother's had fabricated to this box and she set it aside as she rummaged, as appalled by this work of fiction as much as she could possibly be. They'd made it out of some sense of obligation, she supposed, because she was well aware they knew that their father and her father was not one and the same man. They had never breathed a word of it to her, of course, so it felt a cruel joke that they'd tried to trick her into believing something that couldn't possibly be true. She couldn't part with this masterwork though, fake as it was.

She pushed her hand into the bottom and pulled out a bundle of loose cuttings and papers. Pictures of her mother and father, not together of course, and far from official. One was a tasteless article from a gossip magazine a year ago, which conjectured over the queen's unusually close relationship with the Head of Security; Anna wanted to congratulate the magazine's editors on their unintended accuracy. The cheap and flimsy paper was so worn from being handled and touched. She remembered her mother's furious tears after its publication, and Anna had rifled through the trash at the back of the kitchens to rescue it. She recalled Rupert's silent fury at having the truth nearer the surface than ever it had been and Joseph's quiet fear, trickling through everything and everyone. And not once had anyone looked at her, wondered about her, worried about her.

So for four years now she'd kept Rupert's revelation all to herself, nursed it and tended to it until it had grown into something she couldn't control. She had tried on countless occasions; it had sat on the tip of her tongue, heavy and poisonous, and then she swallowed it. Each time it infected her more, becoming more potent and cancerous than it was previously. She practised asking her mother, imagined asking Joe, and each time the words would clog her throat and burn her tongue. And Rupert, Rupert was a fringe character, an archetypal villain she despised and feared in equal measure.

She felt tears come them, stinging and hot, and stuffed the papers back in the box, dropping the horrible book on top. She crawled into a bundle of the dresses and felt the satin against her shoulders, against her warm cheeks, and cried out her frustration, her poison, her confusion.

Anna knew she was merely a by-product of complexity, of some dark and sticky mistake made in a moment of weakness. She could tell, just from the way all of them at looked at her and it made her want to die.

* * *

I hope this clears some things up for you but who wants a resolution this quickly? The angst is the best after all! Please leave a review if you have time.


	22. Part 2 - Eight

**Author's note:** So thank you for all your wonderful support and reviews and comments and criticisms. We've still got lots more to go but I do like this chapter and I hope you do too.

* * *

Clarisse Renaldi was used to humiliation. She was not a stranger to the feeling of being swallowed alive. This wasn't the worst by any stretch of the imagination, but it certainly wasn't the easiest either. She knew she would get through it; that in three months from now the papers would have moved on and the fact that their king was prone to extramarital affairs would just be quiet knowledge rather than sensational copy, but it was still a trial to know she had at least three months of this ahead of her.

Rupert, metaphorically caught with his pants around his ankles, had been stupid again.

Rupert was always stupid when it came to women but this time a very clever person had been nearby with a camera. Maybe it was just a kiss, but it was a kiss with the entire world as its audience.

She had stopped being angry a long time ago, when she had lost the right to be angry at infidelity. Now, it just tired her.

She set the paper aside and tipped her head onto the desk, feeling the cool of the oak against her cheek.

A familiar knock at the door filled her with equal dread and happiness.

"Hello," he closed it behind her, "It's nine p.m., Your Majesty. You should put the work aside."

"I did an hour ago," she answered, "I was simply enjoying today's papers."

He flinched at her irony, "Clarisse, it's-"

"Something I have no right to comment on," she said simply, "He came by to apologise this morning and told me he'd deal with it."

"Well, that's good."

She could see Joseph was insulted that she'd drawn a comparison between what they had done and what Rupert did all the time but she didn't have the energy to become offended or to excuse it. At the end of the day, they had both broken their marriage vows with other people. Love didn't figure to separate the circumstances of physical sex. It didn't make it right because she loved Joseph and she had lost all right to be angry at Rupert the moment she stepped over the threshold of Joseph's apartment.

She was simply as bad as Rupert, if not more so. And it was an unspoken contention between them that Joseph did not believe the same.

"Distract me, Joseph. Make me laugh."

"I'll try," he smiled, "I love seeing you laugh."

"It's a rarity now," she said dryly, "Have tea with me then, if you can't make me laugh?"

For a while, a long time, there had been an open wound stretching between them, festering and ripped and sore. It was healing now; nursed and bandaged with quiet teas in her chamber and soft touches to her cheek. It had started that night in the parlour, the night they had realised they were as lost as each other. Sixteen years had bandaged it too, begun to suture the wound.

Sixteen years of being so afraid they'd cave that they barely shared a word.

"I hate tea Clarisse, can I have coffee?"

"It's so terrible for you," she answered, but gave into his smile, "But of course."

She called for tea and settled on the couch, discarding the papers in the trash as she passed.

"How's Anna?"

"Angry," she answered, "Isn't Anna always angry these days?"

When talk of their eighteen year old daughter came between them it was always with concern for her anger that had sprouted in her early teens and had yet to be laid to rest. It was an oft occurring conversation between them and they had yet to come upon a sufficient solution.

"What should we do?"

He asked, eying her warily.

"I am fed up talking about it, if I am to be blunt. And I am fresh out of suggestions regarding how we bring our daughter round. How are you Joseph? I haven't asked you that in a while."

"I'm fine, I'm good," he answered and she could tell he was edging around his words, "I feel…I feel closer to you recently."

She knew he would say this and she knew it wasn't a lie. A warning sounded in her head – _don't lead him on, don't hurt him again_ – but she was too tired to resist it. She had spent so very long resisting it.

"You are my friend," she answered, "You have always been my friend but yes, yes I agree. Despite the fact I know it is dangerous to do so."

He was silent and was about to speak when Priscilla entered with the tea. She smiled, set the tray up and curtsied as she went.

"I…" she poured the tea, not looking him in the eye, "I am tired of pushing you away."

She could see the shock that flittered across his face as she looked up but he did well to mask it.

She willed herself to continue, "Because the miss is too much. I don't want us to…"

He nodded, showing he understood she couldn't voice it, couldn't say 'have sex' because it wasn't an ample enough word to cover it and 'love making' was paltry too.

"But I do want us to talk more, laugh more," she lifted the calming tea to her mouth and it shook across her lips, "I want you to look at me like you used to."

She had been building to say this for so long that it felt as if the weight was gone from her shoulders, allowing her to breathe deeply for the first time in a long time.

"I didn't know I had stopped," he said honestly.

"Nor did I, until I noticed it had been so long since you'd looked at me at all."

He reached over then and placed an infinitely gentle kiss on her forehead. She shook under him, realising she was trembling in fear as he touched her properly for the first time in years.

"I won't ask anything of you," he reassured.

"I know," she laughed gently, "I do."

"Mama!"

She moved away, girded herself for the storm about to settle on their first moment of bliss for years. At least Joseph was here to counter his own daughter's fire.

"Mama!"

Her jeans appeared first, ripped and torn and altogether completely inappropriate. Her hair was a mass of curls which fell all the way to her waist, falling over a tight black t-shirt that Clarisse knew her father couldn't bear.

"Oh, Joe," she stalled, her Doc Martins thumping to a halt on the floor.

"Princess," he made to stand.

"Sit Joe, it's alright."

Clarisse cringed a little at her demanding tone but he seemed to let it go, remaining exactly where he was on the sofa.

"Mama, are you okay?"

"Of course," Clarisse answered, impressed with her own breeziness.

"But…" Anna faltered and a darkness veiled her face, "But have...the papers?"

Clarisse felt Joseph tense beside her, though he was a distance away. Of course she knew exactly what Anna meant but the very thought of discussing this with her daughter made her feel nauseous.

"Maybe just now isn't-," Joseph began but he was quickly spoken over.

"So he's allowed to do that to her, to me, to us? Is he? He's allowed to do that? He's such a shit."

"Anna!"

She shook her head and her fire seemed to die. She looked awkward once again, a little girl in an adult's world and an adult's clothing. Clarisse wanted to take her in her arms then but her teenager would not allow it, she knew. She hoped soon that this would end. The boys had been rebellious but there was something else about Anna, something that was charged and dangerous.

"It's just…it's humiliating, humiliating…for you."

Clarisse felt, quite clearly, that it wasn't really about she herself being humiliated. Anna simply hated Rupert, and any excuse to see him in the wrong appealed to her.

"But it's not your worry to carry Anna," she answered, feeling her response was entirely underwhelming but knowing nothing else to say.

They had this conversation all the time.

"I would string him up for humiliating me," she muttered, sitting down on the chair across from them.

"Anna, he's your father," Joseph suddenly said, trawling out a lie that Clarisse hated more than any other one she'd ever fabricated, "And he doesn't deserve that."

"He deserves all of it. He's a whoremonger and a drunk."

"Anna!" Joseph stood up, "Anna don't use that language…don't speak like that."

She stood up too, her much smaller frame towered over by Joseph.

"You defend him! You defend him for doing that to her," she pointed at Clarisse, "You are a coward Joseph and she's no better!"

She stormed out then, slamming the door behind her and screaming along the corridor. He said nothing as he stared at the door.

"She has your spirit."

Clarisse said this because she couldn't help but be dry in the face of such an insult.

Joseph looked at her askance, "We tiptoe around her Clarisse, that's the real issue."

She nodded, her voice threatening to break, "Yes, she is very much our fault."

"You think we deserve this punishment," he sat down beside her, "I can see it in your eyes."

"All of this…pain. All of it, because we were weak."

He shook his head, slipped his hand into hers, "Because we were human."

"What a horrible thing to be."

 **-0-**

"You cannot send her," Clarisse insisted, hands gripping the edge of the desk in a white-knuckled fury, "I will not let you."

Rupert didn't even look up, "It's been arranged. Clarisse, she needs to go."

"Well un-arrange it! Rupert, just let me speak to her," she knew her voice was pleading but it didn't seem to matter.

"Clarisse, Clarisse you're always speaking to her," he threw the newspaper, open at page three, towards her, "It evidently doesn't work."

She couldn't bare to look at the picture. The black and white was somehow more graphic than if it was in colour. It wasn't terrible, of course, but the image of her daughter being poured into a limo by a man who they did not know, a man they did not recognise, a man who had no name or title but a firm grip on her knee and his lips on her neck, was an obscenity.

"She's eighteen-"

"And she's acting well beyond her years!"

Clarisse paced back towards the window and looked out into the snow. Just now, Joseph was nursing Anna's little wounds of spite, keeping her calm in her rooms and chambers. The boy had just been a bit of fun, she had said, just some fun and too much vodka. When had her daughter started going to clubs, Clarisse wondered? Who had taught her to give her security the slip? Or had that always been in her?

When had she become a haunted shell of the joyful little girl who had brought such happiness?

Sudden anger surged in her and she was white with fury at Rupert. If she wanted, she could see it as his fault – all of it. He had driven her from their loveless marriage into a bed of such love that it had made her indifferent to the mistakes, the dangers, she was subjecting herself to. Anna's existence was his fault. Pierre's remoteness was his fault and so was Phillippe's misery.

And so was Joseph's.

It was his ignorance that enraged her most.

"And are we to exile every member of our family that ends up on the tabloid covers? Because if we are-"

He slammed his fist on the table, scattering papers all over his office and silencing her. She backed away; cringing from his fury.

"Let's not play tit for tat woman! If we're to do that," spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, "I swear you'll come out much worse. She goes to Switzerland or I will turn on you Clarisse, before she ruins this family. I've been silent for years…but I will not have, I will not have your little…"

She felt herself go blurry, woozy with faintness and surged towards the desk to find balance.

"She goes Clarisse, am I clear?"

The threat was not explicit, because Rupert's threats never were, but it was enough to force her to capitulate. He was a good man, she reminded herself. A good man who knew enough to threaten her.

And it was a threat he felt he could obviously make. Her stomach churned at the realisation he knew – that he understood her lie and had perhaps known if for many years.

Yet he'd said nothing. She was too cowardly to question why, to be thankful to him for his silence. So, as she always did, she pretended she didn't hear it at all.

"Fine," she said, her voice weak, "Fine, yes. Just let me tell her."

"It did your sons no harm," he looked down at the papers and she noticed, for the first time, how old he looked, "It'll do her good darling."

"Yes."

"You can go now Clarisse, get some sleep," he said softly, "Okay?"

She stood up, her legs flimsy as she tried to support herself. Something was screaming in her, a realisation, but as she had for years she ignored it.

 **-0-**

Anna clutched Joseph's hand, her fine fingers wrapped in his. The streets of Geneva, wide and clean and lined with beautiful buildings, were perhaps the prettiest place of exile he'd ever observed. Supressing his own sadness was proving much worse than he'd imagined. He'd wanted her to go to university, not to finishing school. He'd wanted her to learn, not to be trained. Clarisse had been utterly distraught but unable to prevent it and he hadn't had the heart to ask her why she gave in so easily. He was such a coward he didn't want to know the answer. But he had an inkling that Rupert had the upper hand. He wondered, not for the first time, in Rupert knew.

"This is a punishment," she said quietly, eyes trained on the world outside.

"I don't know –"

"It is Joe," she squeezed his fingers, "Because I told him what I think."

"You what?"

He was genuinely shocked. He had heard not a whisper of it, not even from the maids. Whenever it had happened it had happened quietly, secretly. In fact, for a second he doubted it had happened at all.

"Anna, that was-"

"It was necessary," she cut in softly, "It was time I did to him what he does to me. He won't tell anyone – I humiliated him too much."

"What do you mean by that?"

He felt utterly puzzled by her cryptic conversation.

"It doesn't matter," she shrugged and pulled her hand from his.

"It does," he insisted, realising the car was slowing and he was running out of time with her, "Anna-"

"Stop pretending it matters," she said coldly, "I'm here now. He has what he wants. Soon I'll be old enough and he will not have any say over me."

"And then you can speak to him sensibly, kind-"

"Do you ever feel you're leading a life that isn't yours?"

She looked him straight in the face, eyes strong and startlingly blue. She had his eyes. Her mouth was in a grim line and he knew he had to be honest in the face of her interruption.

"All the time."

"So do I."

She was silent until the head of the school met them in the hall.

"Don't leave me here," she whispered, a little desperately, "Send me to Magda."

The mention of his sister almost floored him.

"Anna-"

"I knew you couldn't do it," she turned her face away, "I knew you wouldn't do it. She means more to you than I do. Her reputation means more than me. She means more than me. And that's always been the way of it."

He wouldn't tell Clarisse about what she said, about what her eyes said to him. He thought and thought and felt panic tightening like iron around his chest until exhaustion claimed him with its nightmares and blackness.

Because his daughter knew and he didn't know how. His daughter knew she was his.


	23. Part 2 - Nine

**Author's note:** This was, by far, my most favourite chapter to write, edit etc. I'm sure you'll see why and you enjoy it too.

* * *

The phone, a sharp and irritating ring, broke through her concentration. Violetta reached towards it and answered quietly. Clarisse was grateful for her doing so and went back to the work in front of her. Rupert had slowed down recently, and she was worried over his health in a way she hadn't been before. He coughed through the night, the bark ringing down the corridor, his shortness of breath echoing through the halls. She didn't want to acknowledge it, she couldn't acknowledge the situation that was staring her in the face. The quietness of the palace, the absence of Anna and Pierre, was only broken by the growl of his cough and the shouts of Phillippe and the whole orchestra was a horror.

She would have given anything to fall asleep and never wake up and she knew how terribly selfish that was.

Her mind flew to Joseph. She couldn't recall the last word they'd shared that hadn't been about work or worry. She wondered now where he was.

"Your Majesty, it is the school."

"Oh."

The first time the school had called they'd spoken to Rupert to complain quite vociferously about Anna introducing the other ladies _120 Days of Sodom,_ complete with dramatic readings of certain extracts. After that, Clarisse had discreetly asked the school to direct any complaints towards her. Over the course of the year, there had been precisely six phone calls.

She tried to gather her strength as Violetta put the call through.

"Lady Withers, are you well?"

She listened as the head of the school told her that the final straw had been quite neatly snapped.

"Yes," she agreed wearily, "Encouraging the other girls to break out is scandalous."

And she did agree, she really did.

"She cannot remain," the woman said finally, ruefully, "And I am truly sorry."

"I'm sure you are," Clarisse answered, her voice chilly with the hope she might use her sway.

"We've educated many princesses here, yourself included, but Princess Anna simply does not fit. Forgive me, Your Majesty."

"No," she knew there was no protest to be brooked and that an offer of money or endorsement would do no good. These schools prized privilege above money. Which, she had learned, were very different.

"Your Majesty, I am sorry," the woman said on the other end.

"You are not at fault," she sighed, "I shall send someone to fetch the princess. I shall let you know the details tomorrow."

There was no point in asking to speak to Anna because she wouldn't want to speak.

Standing up, ignoring Violetta's pitying look, she smoothed her jacket out over her front.

"Have you ever wanted to eat an entire tub of ice cream Violetta?"

"Oh, absolutely," the woman answered.

"Well, do not let me near the freezers, today of all days," she smiled, "Excuse me, I have to see the Colonel."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

The halls were quiet and dark and the only noise was the clicking of her heels. She liked this noise, the noise of journeys and travel, the noise of no thought and only movement.

She found him in the garage, where he was often to be found. He was obsessed with every little detail of security and the vehicles were just a facet of his fascination with detail. And she knew he found it therapeutic – that, at heart, he was the kind of person who wanted to be constantly occupied.

He was crouched at the wheels of his own motorcycle this time and then it occurred to her that it was his day off. She stopped to admire. And it was an admiration she'd almost forgotten. He was so good-looking. Strong, handsome, tall, safe. And desirable, she thought, for just a treacherous moment.

"You are not a good spy. Your heels give you away."

She startled a little, smiling as he turned to face her. He was shiny with perspiration, his cheek streaked with grime, his hands blackened with oil. He rubbed his fingers with a rag that he pulled from the pocket of his jeans.

"Like what you see?"

She felt her face redden at his brazen words and felt naïve again, for the first time in a long time. It was bizarre to come full circle like this. Time, it appeared, did heal all wounds. The transition had been slow but it had happened. The old Joseph, the old Clarisse, had started creeping back into both of their lives. She wasn't sure, really, how she felt about it.

"Don't tease," she grumbled through a half-smile, "It's not appropriate."

"No, I'm sorry," he agreed, though she smiled to soften the blow and he grinned in return.

This banter had crept back with their old selves, the banter from so long ago that had once been their entire script.

"I have to speak with you," she leaned against one of the large red cabinets that held all the tools.

"Speak away, Clarisse," he settled against the bike.

"Anna has been expelled," she said bluntly, "Truly expelled."

She tried to ignore the smile on his face. He was pleased and it irritated her that she was too.

"It is not funny."

"What was it? A filthy book? A treatise on the positives of a society without monarchy?"

"Less inventive," she said, "She, and a few other girls, escaped and became friendly with a gaggle of soldiers."

He winced at the second part.

"It is almost a cliché," she continued, "I will not be telling Rupert. He's under pressure as it is."

She let the fact that the king would be truly furious go unsaid, even though both of them knew it.

He was quiet as he continued to rub his fingers on the rag. She looked at him closely still. When had his hair started to grey?

"I love this place," he said, hands still busy, "You know."

"It's an odd choice for a favourite location."

He smiled at her sarcasm, though it wasn't without darkness.

"I can still feel you here, if I try very hard," he continued, voice low and entirely serious, "But the rest is gone."

She felt the breath leave her body, as if she had been punched in the gut. It was a melee of emotion ranging between embarrassment and love for him.

"I-"

"Do you still think about it, about us?"

She nodded, "All the time."

"I had become frightened you'd let me go," he looked up from his hands, "And that was the worst thing of all."

Without thinking she went towards him and drew face to face with him, their bodies so close that she felt his breath meet hers. A charged silence, filled with only their breathing and years of painful history, was between them then.

"I could never forget it," she said honestly, openly, "Despite the desire I have to have _never_ loved you in the first place. And I say love, because I _love_ you. My mind would be much clearer, my conscience too. I'd rather the agony of having known you though, and lost you, than of never having had you at all."

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, all the while telling herself that she was simply the worst person in the world.

But it was so hard, no it was _impossible_ , to fight it. She'd run out of ammunition and strength for this war against her own feelings and desires.

He pulled her tightly towards him, a hand on her hip and the other weaved through her hair. She pushed her jacket off with his help and then fumbled to pull his t-shirt over his head. Time had blurred lines again, healed wounds and was about open them afresh.

But she couldn't hear the warnings over the pleasure of his hands on her after an exile that seemed now to be the worst punishment she had inflicted on herself.

On them.

"It's been so long…" he warned against her neck, teeth biting the flesh over her collar and tongue trailing hotly in between, and she realised he sounded unsure, "I might not be able…to ugh…last…"

For a moment she was embarrassed, embarrassed by it all. For the man who'd once been so sure of himself in her bed that he'd rendered her speechless now being afraid of humiliation, that she'd put weight on, that she'd become so much older and more tired.

"If you will forgive my aging body-"

"Be quiet," he murmured, lifting her up and pushing her against the bonnet of the Rolls Royce, "I worship your body."

"You're such a fool," she held her hand against his cheek to focus him, to steady him, "All I've ever done is hurt you."

"We love the things that hurt us," he worked the buttons of her blouse free, sliding it down her arms, "And Clarisse, I love you so much."

She tipped her head back as his mouth devoured her neck then moved down, his hands pushing the straps of her bra deftly as he went.

"Don't leave any marks," she warned gently, her hands on his head.

"You think I've forgotten? "He barked a little laugh and pushed her skirt up her thighs and round her waist, "I practise this in my dreams every night."

Despite the filth of it, the truth of it, it made her feel more loved than she had since the last time she'd been with him in this garage. His hands were glorious on her, burning and demanding. And his mouth whispered love and affection and everything that she had known but failed to listen to for years. It didn't matter the locale or the circumstance or the lack of bed but who it was with and what it was about – those were the keys to her feeling of worth.

She flustered to push his jeans down, her hands trembling against the old denim.

"I have wanted you for so, so long," he said softly, gently.

He was so gentle, even under these circumstance.

She was embarrassed to feel tears spring into her eyes.

"I love you."

And saying that again was the biggest release of all for her.

 **-0-**

He hadn't dared imagine this again; it had been so long and now in the aftermath he felt blurry with shock. Nerves sloshed in his gut as he realised that there had to be an end to this too, that much was inevitable. She was sitting, eyes closed and face tipped up to the ceiling and resting against the grill, on the dust sheet he'd quickly placed down once they'd finished making love.

For a moment, he wondered if any other queen had ever made love in the garage.

"There's oil on your skirt," he pointed to the greasy stain on the cream garment, "Must have come from my jeans."

She looked down, "It is fine. I'll throw it out." She moved a little to rest her head on his shoulder, "Joseph, you're going to have to help me up; I am too old for this floor."

"With this knee," he tapped his kneecap grimly, "We might be stuck then."

She was suddenly very concerned, "Oh Joseph, did I hurt you?"

He laughed, "No Clarisse, I'm just…old. It's getting worse."

She quirked a brow, "You don't feel very old."

"I don't feel old when I'm with you," he said gently, "So that helped, actually."

She curled her legs up so they were resting across his and her hand began to gently massage his knee. The touch was so kind, so gentle, he thought he might weep. It had been so long that holding her, like this, and having her touch him like she once had, made him feel alive again.

"Do you want me to go for Anna?"

She nodded silently.

"Okay, I'll leave tomorrow."

"Then what do we do?"

She seemed helpless and lost for a moment. She was not, in this timeframe, the queen she was so very good at being. She wasn't brilliant at being Clarisse, it occurred to him.

"I have an idea," he said, "But I'll need a few days to sort it. She'll be safe and happy and gone for the remainder of finishing school."

She looked wary momentarily, "You know you are proposing we lie to Rupert, a treasonable offence."

He nearly snorted at her seriousness, "Are you kidding?"

She smiled sourly, "I suppose you make a salient point."

"The most salient ever made," he laughed, tipping his head back as she trailed her finger across his goatee.

"Counting greys?"

"Nope," she whispered, "Reminiscing. Enjoying."

"Oh, it was enjoyable all right," he pulled her closer.

"It was…it is," she whispered, tipping her head against his, "I thought I'd never have this again."

"Good sex?"

He couldn't resist seeing a blush of indignation crawl over the bones of her cheeks.

"No," she swatted his chest gently and he caught her hand and kissed it, "No, no. Though I am not disputing that."

"It'd be rude of you to dispute that…and dishonest."

"Honestly, I'd forgotten you had such a filthy tongue," she laughed lowly.

"You like my ton-"

"Quite enough," she said, and he knew she was serious.

He held up his hands and grinned, "Forgive me."

It was funny that, after they'd done something unspeakable again, their conversation was flowing more than it ever had. She was laughing as she once had and smiling as she used to.

"What did you think you'd have, if you never thought you'd have this?"

He watched her think, the way she smoothed her hand over her crumpled, uneven shirt as if that would help.

"I was too young to know what I wanted," she said gently, "I didn't know what I wanted until you were it and then I could not have you."

"You have me now," he smiled, frightened to darken the mood with fears of what might be.

She smiled and kissed his cheek, "I have to go back, I have a meeting in…," she checked her watch, "An hour."

"Organise with Rupert, my going away, please."

"I shall fabricate another lie," he could see she was embarrassed, "What's another one to add to the pile?"

He felt guilty then, "You're doing it because you have to."

"I am doing it because I'm weak," she rested her head against his, "But I am so tired of being strong, of fighting."

"There's nothing wrong with being weak," he answered and he really meant it.

"Only if you're not hurting others. I thought my strength of will, my moral compass, my duty to my country, could win over my bodily weakness."

"Ah, see," he touched her cheek, "You're mistaking weakness of the heart for a weakness of the body."

"Such a poet."

She closed her eyes and he admired her beautiful, calm face. He was transported back to the warm, quiet sheets of an apartment that was in the so long ago, he had forgotten how it felt.

"Thank you."

And he was thanking her for so much more than just the compliment.

* * *

Please, please review.


	24. Part 2 - Ten

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the positive reviews on the previous chapter. I found this one VERY difficult, so I'd be really grateful of your feedback.

* * *

Anna sidled out the door of the Head teacher's internal office, tears threatening her eyes. She hadn't expected to hear his voice, on the other side of the door, and it had taken her by surprise. She supposed they'd send someone for her, but not so soon and not so severely. When they called in Joe, it was the Genovian equivalent of calling in the cavalry and she wasn't prepared to see him yet, to see the man who had fathered her after such a time away from him. She knew she wouldn't meet anyone on the way to her room so it was easy to get in, snatch up her satchel, and run down the back stairs. For all she'd been a total riot of stupidity, they didn't seem to think she'd do it again.

She'd a half bottle of brandy in her satchel, her coat and the credit cards that were a marker of her privileged life. She thought that would be enough until she could square her head up.

Because that was exactly what she needed to do.

She wandered along the banks of Lake Geneva, the wind battering against her and forcing her to pull her hood up around her face. She always gave her security the slip yet now she wanted to know they were chasing her, Joe at the helm. She knew right now that he would be very angry, probably berating her security detail, and she hated that she was the reason for his anger.

She settled on a bench at the shore, ten minutes from the school, and pulled the brandy out.

If her mother could see her now she'd be ashamed. And she wouldn't blame her.

Clarisse loved her so much.

Her parents loved her so much.

And she loved them.

The problem was the lack of transparency. Ever since Rupert had confirmed what she already knew and the truth had gone from an intangible hope to a sore reality she had been on an unstoppable ride of terror. The hard thing was, she couldn't really get off.

She had no idea who she was and no one wanted to help her figure it out.

She had never had the guts to pilfer any of the letters which were addressed to her. She had too much respect for his intelligence to steal a letter he'd know was missing. It hadn't stopped her memorising most of them though, and a lot of her time before the king had banished her to finishing school had been spent clandestinely reading letters while he was on shift.

When she was miserable, she recalled his list, so obviously written before she was born.

 _'_ _My baby,_

 _Here are just some of the reasons I love your mother…'_

The list made her laugh, and cry in turns, when she thought about it. He had written silly things, like the way she laughed or the way she rolled her eyes at nobles. But there were other, strangely intimate things too. The way she said his name, the way she loved her sons, the strengths she had, her legs.

She wanted to know if he still felt the same but after she'd discovered where she came from, she didn't want to know.

Because she hated them for it too. That's what made the entirety of it so difficult to stomach.

She remembered wishing Joseph was her father so much and as soon as she learned he was she hated him for it. She hated her mother for tempting her with a life she could never have.

And she hated Rupert.

She swiped tears away from her face and took another swig.

It was exhausting being full to the brim with loathing.

She had always wanted to meet Amelia, her brother's daughter because she imagined she felt tricked, too, by her parents. The girl was fourteen now, soon to be fifteen if she recalled correctly. Her niece, that little known and hushed Genovian secret, was a teenager now.

And that made her angry too; she knew how it felt to be kept in the dark, to be told one thing and be another. She didn't ever want Amelia to feel that.

Renaldis didn't know how to tell the truth in reality, and when her mother had become a Renaldi she'd learned how to lie too. And when she discovered her mother was a liar she'd felt betrayed.

She knew she should pity her, she knew why her mother did it and did it to protect her, but she couldn't forgive her.

She took a burning slug of the brandy.

"Your father drinks too much."

She didn't answer him. He was out of breath; she could hear it in the labour of his breathing, coming in sharp puffs into the cold air. He must have run all the way from the school. He'd dropped her detail somewhere though and he was completely alone. She wondered why. But then, she knew Joseph thought he was big enough to take on the world.

"Does he now?"

"Yeah," he came to sit beside her.

"My father's a fucking ass," she offered him the bottle.

"No, thanks. He's not a-"

"I know Rupert's not. Well he is, but that's not…Thing is I don't give a shit about Rupert."

"You ought to."

"You're such a fucking pretender," she didn't look at him.

"Anna, why are you-"

"I know."

She felt him tense beside her and was genuinely shocked that he seemed just a little surprised by her revelation. There was a cool silence then and she could hear the panic in his head, the white-noise of realisation.

He swallowed, "Know what?"

"That you fucked my mother and I'm yours."

He turned to look at her and his eyes were angry, "You're wrong."

"No I am not. You-"

"Never say I fucked your mother," he interrupted hotly, "Never say that."

She was offended that he'd decided to defend his actions over explaining himself.

"Sorry my lexical choice is so upsetting for you. You're failing to see the point though. I don't give a shit what you did, just that you did it and have lied for my entire life."

He seemed to lose his fight. He was trembling beside her and he let out a huff of breath before he spoke again.

"Fair enough," he stuck out a shaking hand and took the bottle from her, "Fair enough. And yes, it would appear that your father is the biggest ass of all."

She watched him drink and knew he was calculating his next move. His pitiful reaction made her feel less angry suddenly. She'd thought he'd be angry but, actually, he seemed sort of relieved. Maybe she'd expected that all along because oddly, it didn't surprise her.

"How long?"

"Rupert" she answered, pulling her coat around herself and laughing darkly, "Eleven, in the library."

"We're not playing Clue," he groaned.

She risked a look at him and saw tears tracking down his cheeks.

"Sorry I –"

"No, I'm sorry," he whispered, "I am so fucking sorry."

"You always give me a row for swearing," she nudged him, realising it was worse for him than for her to have this conversation, "See it's in my genes."

"I knew, when I left you here, that you already knew. I'm sorry I ran scared."

"Who can blame you? Who would want me for a daughter?"

"I do…we do."

"Oh, so you speak on Clarisse's behalf?"

"She's your mother, call her your mother."

"The title she least deserves," she said it just to get a reaction out of him but the one it elicited was not what she expected.

There was pain on his face.

When she imagined this moment she'd imagined anger or sadness or even excitement but not pain.

"She would die for you, you know."

"No, I don't."

"When you were born, when you were born…" the words seemed to fail him, "She's given up everything, everything, so you'll be safe."

"You mean she's given up you?"

He winced and she knew it was true.

"Isn't that what you mean?"

He didn't answer.

"Isn't that what you mean? Isn't it about the fact she stopped fu-"

"Don't! Don't dare Anna!"

He stood up, fists clenched at his sides and pulsing open and closed.

"See, I'm no aristocrat. I just come from this," she motioned to him, sweeping her hand up and down sourly, "You put me in a life I wasn't made for and you left me there. I am not a Renaldi, I'm you. I am yours."

He sat down again, as if all the fury had flooded out his body, and put his head in his hands.

"I love your mother," he said, "And she loves me."

"I'm delighted for you both. Did it ever once occur to you that you were screwing everyone over royally, if you'll pardon the pun, while you fell in love? When you are feeling sorry for Rupert you know your parents have really created a shit storm."

She felt so logical in that moment, not angry or furious or even sad. She just wanted the answers she'd been chasing for years.

"Is there any chance you might stop swearing?"

"I suppose so," she agreed, "I know you don't like it."

"I never thought I'd mind it. But you're my daughter and it transpires I don't like it at all."

"So you're going to take an interest in me now?"

He shot her a wounded look, "I've always taken an interest in you."

"I know. That was low of me, I am sorry."

"I think we have lots to apologise for," he murmured, "I think we have lots to say sorry for. Anna, I'm going to ask you not to tell-"

"My mama, I know," she finished for him, "Why?"

"Because she's spent forever trying to protect you from it."

She nodded but said nothing because she wasn't sure if she could promise him and not break it.

"It will break her if she realises all she worked for was a waste of…," he shook his head, "Rupert told you, Anna?"

His shock was evident. It occurred to her then that they obviously imagined Rupert did not know. She wondered what had made her mother and Joseph think they'd escaped the truth.

"Yes," she looked out onto the glassiness of the lake and took another gulp, "When I was eleven. Remember the summer I spent in the library? He was drunk one night and he told me he wasn't my father. He didn't derive pleasure from it or anything…but he wasn't fussed either way really. I think that's what hurt more. I mean, I wanted him to be angry but he wasn't. He was just telling me facts. Isn't it ironic that the biggest liar in my life ended up being the only one to tell me the truth?"

"That must have hurt."

"Joe, I already knew. I have known since I was very little."

He sighed, "Yeah?"

"I've never fit. Even my brothers don't treat me like I fit, not really. They love me too much, they care too much. They were always frightened I'd realise. They were always trying to make me fit where I didn't."

He nodded.

"I won't tell her," she was urged to say suddenly, "I won't say anything."

"Thank you."

There was a silence then that was peaceful and calm and nothing like it had been before between them.

"Can I get my letters?"

"What?"

He was evidently horrified.

"My letters, can I have my letters?"

She pressed because the fire had fled her and now she just pitied him.

"You found those?"

"I went prowling for them, to be frank," she looked away, embarrassed that she'd been found out.

He was smiling though and the ghost of a laugh escaped his mouth.

"I don't know who you take that after," he smiled, "I mean, your mother is pretty good at giving security the slip-"

"Oh, yeah," she agreed, "Did she give you the slip?"

He laughed, "No, never."

"I had so many questions but your letters answered most, I suppose. I feel like I know it all. That made it worse because I had another history and no one was acknowledging it. I knew all this stuff and it was all stored inside me and everyone was ignoring it."

"I am so sorry," he said, "I am so, so sorry that we made you keep this."

"How were you to know? How were you to know? It would be easy for you to blame yourself. I could have just told you both and not been so angry."

"You are, you _were,_ so angry."

"And I'm sorry for that," she nudged him, "Kind of. Can you hug me?"

He looked delighted at her request, "Yes, of course."

She sidled nearer him and she couldn't remember the last time she'd hugged Joe. It had been such a while since she'd crawled into his arms and just sat there. It had been such a part of her childhood, he had been such a fixture of her life, and she'd forgotten that.

"I missed hugging you," she said.

"You got so big Anna," he kissed her crown, "And fantastic."

She smiled up at him, "One could very much dispute that. I mean, lots of people would."

"Lots of people would be wrong."

She laughed and, after a while of silence said: "What are your plans for me?"

"You and I are going to leave in the morning but tonight, chatting and questions and…pizza," he took the brandy bottle, "No booze."

"You had a swig," she accused half-heartedly.

"I am legally allowed," he smiled and stood up, going towards the trash can and dumping the bottle.

"So am I."

He smiled, "But I prefer pizza."

"Funnily enough, so do I."

She felt like a little girl again, watching the man who'd always been her hero returning to form. It wasn't healed and it wasn't perfect, but she figured it would eventually get there. She knew he was still processing, still panicking, but she'd taken her shot and started her catharsis. He'd have to come with her, he'd have to accept now that she knew.

For her it was simple and easy and for him it would have to be too.

 **-0-**

He hadn't chartered Genovia One, since the excuse he'd given for his absence was a personal family matter – which he supposed was true - so he hired a nice car and settled in for the journey to France. She was up early and ready to go, wearing a cotton shirt and jeans. She'd washed her hair and pushed it back from her face.

"Where are we going?"

She asked as he held the door open for her. It was still early and the car-lot was quiet and calm.

"Paris."

"Why Paris?"

"I want you to meet someone who means a lot to me," he answered honestly, "And that person is in Paris. You can't come back to Genovia, not right now."

He could see the relief etched on her face at the imperative that she wouldn't be returning just yet. Guilt coursed through him – had she been so miserable for so long and had they been so selfish that they ignored it?

"It's Magda, right?" She smiled and he could see excitement on her face, "Really?"

"Really. Buckle up."

Throughout the ride he considered what he'd say to Clarisse on his return and yet nothing would materialise. It would break her to know Anna knew, humiliate her too.

But then, if he didn't tell her he was a liar.

"Are you worried about my mother?"

Anna seemed to read his mind.

"Yes, absolutely."

His daughter tugged on her seatbelt, then looked thoughtful, "Not yet."

"You're telling me to lie to her."

"Oh," she laughed a little, "So your policy is not to lie to her."

He knew she was jesting but it still stung, "Yes, yes I suppose."

"Ironic," she teased, "Joe, let's work out a way to tell her, together. I would rather be there."

"Alright."

She reached for his hand, "You know once I told you that you were my favourite person?"

"Yes."

"That still stands."

* * *

Awkward? Contrived? I never felt I got it right, no matter how I tried. I'd be grateful of any feedback!


	25. Part 2 - Eleven

**Author's Note** : Thank you so much for the really positive reviews. I'm really grateful! Please keep enjoying and, if you have time, reviewing.

* * *

Clarisse genuinely wanted to scold herself for primping in front of the mirror but his imminent return had rendered her stupid and giddy. She hadn't had the chance to see him before he'd left for Geneva and so their interlude in the garage had been the last time she'd properly spoken to him. The days in between she had felt nervous, stomach clenched, because she knew that it had to go smoothly for her daughter. If not she would have to return to Genovia and the thought of confronting Rupert with her daughter's crimes was unbearable.

He'd taken Anna to Paris, where she was to visit with Magda and her husband until, at least, the term at finishing school was over.

Clarisse was conveniently ignoring the fact that her Head of Security's sister had just taken in a young woman who had nothing to do with her. Or she knew.

Magda probably knew and if Joseph had told her, then so be it.

"You look lovely today," Rupert walked towards her.

"Thank you," she smiled genuinely, "How are you?"

"Tired," he responded, "So bloody tired."

"Remember when I was really ill, a long time ago?"

He nodded and sat down at the breakfast table, "Yes."

"Well you made me see the doctor," she said, "See a doctor."

"Right, no arguments," he answered, but it turned into a terrible cough.

"I'll arrange it."

Clarisse poured him some tea and waited for the coughing jag to dissipate. It took a while though and when it was over he looked greyer than he had before.

"How's Anna?"

She tried to clear any tension from her voice, "Well, good."

"Maybe we should bring her back home."

She was surprised that he'd even suggested it. Rupert hadn't been overly fond of having any of the children around the palace; he believed independence made a better monarch than mollycoddling.

It pained her to acknowledge that he was right. In his case, and in the case of so many others, it had bred a cold monarch too.

And of course there were other reasons he might not want Anna home. she swallowed her fear.

"No," she pulled the newspaper towards her, "No, I think she is happy where she is."

"Alright."

There was a comfortable silence then, the silence of a couple who'd spent a long time married but no time in love.

She knew Joseph was arriving late afternoon but she had a growing bundle of paperwork to try and climb and a number of public appearances to arrange. She would have rushed to meet him, perhaps, if she hadn't been aware that it was both ludicrous and gossip-inducing. So she exiled herself to her office to await his arrival.

"So the choice is between a new hospital and a new pier?"

"Violetta smiled, "That's the choice."

"I'll take the hospital, Phillippe can have the pier," she said, "He'll much prefer that."

She stopped for a moment and sat back.

"Violetta, please stop for a moment."

The secretary did as she was asked and placed her pen atop the desk's surface.

"You're leaving at the end of this week, for pastures new, and I-"

"Your Majesty, please…."

Clarisse held up a hand to silence the other woman. This had been difficult enough without having to make herself heard.

"I want to say thank you for everything. For everything you saw…and didn't see," she pulled the drawer open at her side and pulled out a small box, "I wanted to give you a token of my appreciation. Not from the crown, not from the government, but from me."

She watched as the secretary opened the diamond pendant.

"I am so grateful, Your Majesty, but you didn't need to…"

"I wanted to," she said simply, "And no one will ever be quite as wonderful as you have been with me."

"Thank you," Violetta's voice was just a little weaker, "I am so grateful."

"Ah, not at all," she felt awkward now, "Charlotte is visiting tomorrow?"

"Yes, yes," Violetta smiled, "She's very good. The Colonel and I found her very suitable."

"Well you are the people I trust most," she smiled, "I-"

The doors were pushed open by the guards and it took a moment for Joseph to appear. He looked tired, happy but tired.

He bowed lowly.

"Your Majesty."

"Colonel Romerro," she remained behind the desk, "Are you well?"

"Yes," he approached the desk, "Hello Violetta."

"Hello Joseph," her secretary stood up, "If you'll forgive me Your Majesty but I said to Charlotte I'd phone her."

"Ah, of course," Clarisse smiled, "Of course."

They both watched her go.

"How was-"

"How are-"

They laughed, a little awkwardly, as both began to speak. She hadn't expected the excitement flowing between them; it had been so long since anything but tension that for this to be the first emotion between them was unusual.

"I missed you," he said, "Really missed you."

"Come," she motioned towards the sitting area, "Come and tell me about her. How is she?"

"Happier to be in Paris than she was in Switzerland."

She smiled with relief and felt it travel from her head to her toes.

"She's so beautiful Clarisse," he sounded wistful almost, "She's funny and clever and beautiful and- and…"

"And?"

"And she's just wonderful. She's just like you. Less polite, it has to be said, but truly wonderful."

He seemed bashful for a moment and she saw someone emerging that she hadn't seen for years. He had grown so serious and gruff that it was difficult to remember that once upon a time, they had been giddy in each other's presence.

"You don't mean that," she accused lightly because his praise made her self-conscious.

"I do," he murmured, "I do."

"She's wild. She is nothing like me."

"So would you have been, if it hadn't been for this life," he said softly, "You have that in you."

She laughed richly, "Now that is crazy."

"A harsh accusation," he reached out and pulled her to him, "Maybe true."

She laughed a little then settled in his arms. It felt natural and ordinary, as if nearly twenty years of nothing but agony was gone in an instant.

"I think Rupert is ill, Joseph," she said quietly.

She hadn't wanted to sound awkward but she did anyway. He stalled for a moment and considered her words.

"No, actually," she said softly, before he spoke, "I know he is ill."

"What are you going to do?"

It was such a pragmatic, sensible question yet it floored her.

"I- I do not know."

"Please do not worry," he touched his lips to her temple, "It will be okay."

She heard hope in his voice. It would have been so easy to be angry or offended but she could hardly react that way when hope was thrumming in her own heart.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it, please review.


	26. Part 2 - Twelve

**Author's note:** Thank you so much for your kind reviews and encouragement. For those who are 'guests' - I can't message you personally, so thank you.

* * *

"Paris is so, so beautiful," she whispered, well aware she sounded naïve and childish.

Magda gave her a sideways smile, "It is. Haven't you been here before?"

She pushed her sunglasses away but, with Magda's disapproving frown, she slipped them back on. Joseph had conceded that her detail could remain in the apartment on her ventures out, as long as she wore her sunglasses. She didn't know if he was getting soft in his old age or if he was merely guilty. The fact he was sure her detail wouldn't tell impressed her too - he demanded a loyalty like no one she had ever known.

"Yes, of course. Never without security though or without a car," she smiled, "So I haven't really seen Paris properly."

"Do all little rich girls complain about being hemmed in?"

She giggled, reminded of Joseph's dryness in Magda's mannerisms. She hadn't yet thought of him as 'dad' yet, or even 'father', and she knew she probably never would. They were lounging on the grass in the Parc de Champ de Mars, tummies heavy with crepes and lemon and sugar and eyes tired with a day of sightseeing. Dusk was falling, covering Paris in an amber glow.

"I…am…" she felt suddenly embarrassed.

"Yes?"

"I am grateful, to you, for having me."

"You're my niece," Magda shrugged.

She nodded quietly, "When did he tell you?"

Magda laughed darkly, "Joseph never told me. He didn't have to. I've never known another man who carries a picture of someone else's child in his wallet. That was what confirmed it for me but I had known from the moment I saw you on television."

"He doesn't carry a wallet," Anna answered, feeling a little defensive of his apparently sloppy ways.

She'd never known him to have a wallet – a money clip, yes, but never a wallet.

"No, maybe not when he's at work," Magda answered, tone even, "But he does when he's at home, with his family. One night he was drunk and left it lying open on the table. I closed it before my mother saw. If she had seen…" She shook her head, "He was drunk and I found him in the garden. It was a really dark time in his life, I think. You were three maybe. I can't remember. But he was drunk and I asked him. For all Joseph's good at silence, he's terrible at lying when it comes to matters of his personal life."

It was a lot to ingest but she had questions, questions which were being answered for the first time. Not the burning ones but the ones that padded out her story.

"Would your mother be angry?"

Magda looked thoughtful for a moment, "Not angry. I'm being unfair. She would be hurt, I think. We knew, even though no one ever said it, that he was in love with your mother."

It was strange to hear someone else say it. She wondered then just how many people knew. She'd known, theoretically, the difference between sex and love, lust and longing. She had simply been unsure as to what category her parents fell into. The more she thought and considered it, the more she thought it was love. It was selfish but it was love nonetheless.

"But our mother would want to know her granddaughter, despite the fact she already has nine. It wouldn't matter. Joe's the golden boy in the family, the oldest and the most successful. He was always so sad though until…"

"Until he came to Genovia," she finished for Magda.

"Yes, but then he was miserable at times too. It was hard to know Joe deeply and it still is."

She nodded, "He loves my mother. You can see it."

Magda nodded but Anna could see the scepticism on her face. It riled her a little.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You haven't met her," Anna said quietly, shocked that she was defending her own mother, "You don't know her."

"No," Magda conceded, "You're right."

Anna heard the unsaid 'But'.

"But?"

Magda looked pensive, "But I mean…come on."

"Come on what?"

Anna laughed a little.

"I don't know your mother but I know my older brother. He wouldn't let himself be fooled but it seems he…I don't know, is a bit too obsessed. A little too besotted. Think of it from my perspective as a sister, watching your brother strung along by a woman who won't ever be his."

Anna had no response to that.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

"You haven't Magda. My mother's a difficult person but she's not a bad one. She loves me, and my brothers and Joseph very much. She isn't as cold as the media would have you believe. It's easy for me to hate my mother because she'll never not love me. She's as much a victim of shitty circumstance as anyone really."

Magda nodded, "You're a clever girl, you know."

"Thanks," Anna nodded, "I am just not very good at putting it to use."

"You should," her aunt said, seriously.

"Princesses don't have jobs."

Magda looked at her, "You're not a princess."

It wasn't offensive, in fact it was cathartic. Anna felt a bubble of a laugh burst into her throat.

"I know," she smiled, "I know."

Magda stood up, "MY shift starts in an hour. Matthias will be home but I'm assuming you'll be doing as you seem to do every evening; reading. Keep your glasses on, don't want anyone recognising you."

They walked along in silence for a moment, then Magda looped her arm through her own and squeezed.

"I'm so glad to finally meet you," she said gently, "I really mean it."

"Me too."

-0-

Joseph had been ordered to visit the king last thing in the evening, before he retired to bed. Evenings were better for Rupert now because by that point his cough of the morning would have subsided to the occasional bark. It was easier, too, to attach him to the oxygen tanks that had come to vandalize the classic interiors of his rooms.

Pierre had come home this morning. It was a palace under siege, waiting for the death of an ailing king.

It was pitiful, watching him pull his frail body up against the settee.

"Please forgive me, Joseph, if I don't seem at my best," he heaved.

Not at all, Your Majesty," he bowed and took the seat across from Rupert, which he motioned to.

"It's simple, Joseph," he continued, "I don't have a lot of time. I need you to bring Anna home, from wherever she is."

The significant look Rupert shot him was not missed on Joseph. He swallowed but remained silent.

"Don't tell Clarisse," he continued and as Joseph went to protest, the king held up his hands, "Not because of anything sinister. Not because I want to keep her out of the loop. But because she won't let me if I tell her I plan to do it."

He leaned forward and suddenly he looked sore, "Joseph, I have amends to make to that girl. Help me make them."

Joseph nodded and said nothing again.

"I've not been a very good husband," the other man massaged the bony cavity of his chest as he spoke, "I've not been a great father. I'd like, at least, to give my children the chance to say so."

For Joseph this was hard to stomach, since he knew Rupert was entirely aware that Anna was not in fact his. Though it wasn't nastiness that was driving Rupert or vengeance: Joseph could see it in his eyes.

"She's in Paris," he said honestly, "With my sister."

Rupert nodded, "Bring her home. Her mother needs her…and maybe her father does too."

For years, so many things had gone between Joseph and Rupert that were unsaid. They both knew more than they were ever going to vocalise and for Rupert to acknowledge Joseph's perfidy or for Joseph to acknowledge the cruelty in Rupert was unthinkable.

Joseph stood up to go and just as he was turning, Rupert stopped him.

"Joseph?"

"Sire?"

"I wish I had been more like you," he dipped his head, "I wish I could have loved her like you have."

He did not know to which 'she' he referred and he wondered if it was both of them.

Joseph could say nothing, could not react, so he simply nodded and went from the room.

* * *

Please review, if you enjoyed.


	27. Part 2 - Thirteen

**Author's note:** Thank you so much for your reviews, kindness, patience, criticism etc. This is the end of Part 2 but there is still lots more to come. Thank you again.

* * *

It was seamless really, the transition from alive to dead. He seemed to be dying in front of her. Magda had told her to be strong and to be decent. It was good advice but right now, it was hard to be all of those things in the face of the king.

"Anna…"

He pulled the mask away from his sallow face and gulped, like a fish, for air. Despite how much she didn't like him at times, she pitied him then.

"Put the mask back on father."

Old habits died hard for her and she had respect for him and for the lie her life had been built on.

"You are a good young woman," he sat forward, a cough gurgling wetly from his chest and echoing around the room.

"I don't know that I am," she shook her head, sat further back in the chair.

"Anna, I want to apologise."

She was shocked then. Rupert Renaldi was not very well known for his urge to repent. Well, not for genuine repentance anyway. He had repented often enough for his infidelities and humiliations to which he subjected his entire family but he'd not really meant it.

"I really want to apologise to you."

Perhaps he meant it now.

"Let me speak," he asked softly, "Then you can ask anything you wish to."

She nodded silently.

"I am sorry, Anna, that I told you what I did. Despite the fact it was true, I regretted it the moment it left my mouth."

She had to force a cruel retort back into silence.

"I knew, the moment I told you, what I had done. I should have gone then and fixed it and instead I marooned you. You could never have gone to your mother or Joseph. I very much couldn't bear to look at you after that, not because of what you were a product of, but because you were so miserable as a result of me. I left a little girl, who had no coping mechanism, to deal with the worst news in the world."

She nodded silently, aware he had thought this out. While it was polished and considered, it didn't lack warmth or genuine remorse. To say she was relieved would be an understatement.

"So I am sorry. There is so much more I could apologise for, Anna, but you're far cleverer than me. You pointed that out to me just before I sent you to finishing school. So I give you permission to hold any grudge against me now, and I ask for your absolution too."

That heated exchange from nearly a year ago came flooding back to her and she grew warm with embarrassment.

"I am sor-"

"Don't," he waived his hand, "You were right to point out to me what I had done. I wasn't ready to hear it yet. Dying certainly forces you to gain perspective."

She nodded.

There was silence then, punctured only by his rasping breaths, as she tried to calculate her next question.

"Why did you let them lie to you?"

He seemed surprised by her train of thought and was silent.

"You swore you would-"

He held up his hand, "I know I did and I am as good as my word."

"That is not promising."

He rewarded her sarcasm with a dark smile. It occurred to her, then, just how potent a catalyst death could be. The old Rupert would have been furious at her barb.

"He pressed the mask to his face and she waited for his answer, "Because I owed her it."

She was puzzled and her face obviously showed that.

"I owed her it. You know, you once pointed out to me, that I was not a good husband. I saw it between her and Joseph long before I was willing to do anything about it. It vindicated me a little, I think, sometimes. I thought that if she was as weak as me it was easier for me to justify my infidelity. And I was such a coward, Anna, I was. I saw it and I could have loved her and I didn't want to. I let it go unchecked because it suited me."

She nodded, trying to fathom the complexities of the three adults who had been so intimately woven into the tapestry of her life.

"I figured you weren't mine early on. God knows, Clarisse had never willingly came to my bed."

She shook her head, signalling to him that was quite enough. He shrugged and smiled crookedly.

"But I had put her through so much and I didn't deserve to strip her of her dignity. At any rate, she was a brilliant queen. It was my fault she had fallen in love with Joseph in the first place. But sometimes it was too much to bear; you were too much to bear. You reminded me of how much I'd broken, how much I'd destroyed. And she was so wonderful through all of it. What right did I have to humiliate her? There were times when I was angry, times when I was jealous, but there was never a time when I could have done that to her. She think she's the only one who suffered; what I did to her, my best friend, has been my worst punishment of all."

It wasn't until the tears were sliding down her face that she realised she was sobbing.

"Anna, I love your mother in my own way but not in the way any woman wants to be loved," his voice shook with effort, "And you were a sparkling reminder of that. Sometimes my own guilt got the better of me."

She swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her zipper, "What about Joe?"

His face darkened a little and he shook his head.

"He's a good man," he said simply, "And she loves him. I can't blame him. Even though, at times, I wanted to. I am to blame."

She shook her head, "I don't think any of you are. Shitty circumstances."

This had become her new mantra.

"I'd be proud to have you as my daughter, you know."

She nodded then and, in a move unprecedented between them, she crawled up beside him on the bed.

"Anna, I am sorry."

"Why is it that people spend all of their time apologising? Life is complex, if anything, being a Renaldi has taught me that."

After an hour or so of lying there, silent and contemplative, he'd fallen into a slumber that she knew was induced by the morphine the surgeons had been administering more and more regularly. She slipped out of his chambers, past the guards who smiled and welcomed her home, and went in search of her father. She found him in his office, writing up the log of the day.

She stopped in front of his desk, "I think he is dying."

He looked up at her, his face sad with recognition.

"I think so Anna."

She sat down on the seat in front of his desk and watched as he slid the book to the side and shut down his computer. He was making a point of showing her she had his full attention.

"Do you want to speak about it?"

She considered his offer for a second, "No, not really."

"Alright," he nodded then reaching forward, touched his fingers to hers.

"Why don't you find your mother? She might need you right now."

She nodded then and reaching over, squeezed him as tightly as she could.

She was waylaid on her way to her mother's chambers by her brother who was sitting, in the recess of a window, reading.

"Such an introvert," she muttered, flicking the page irritatingly.

"One was under the impression finishing school would have bred annoyance out of you."

"Don't be silly Pierre, I didn't last long at finishing school. Thankfully I have you to pray for mercy on my black soul."

He shook his head, "I don't want to know."

He moved over and motioned to the seat beside him. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the small space but it gave her comfort. She examined her brother for a second and noticed that he looked older than he had last time. The age gap was considerable, of course, but she'd never noticed it properly before.

"I'm a reformed character now though," she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I highly doubt that," he ruffled her hair, "Are you okay?"

"Are you?" She countered.

"Yes," he nodded, "This is what happens in life."

She nodded, "Even though he's not my…it's still sore."

He simply smiled at her, not at all shocked or appalled by her admission. Instead he looked pleasantly curious. She didn't know why now felt like the right time to explore this unspoken understanding between them but acknowledging it was certainly a relief.

"How long have you known he is not your father?"

"A long time," she shrugged, "But it's mattering less and less."

"You will always be my sister," he said gently, "You know that?"

"Yes," she put her head back down.

Pierre could always be counted on for quiet revelation. She wondered how long he had known.

There were too many questions now but she didn't feel able to ask. It was funny, she thought for a moment, that she had been the only person in her own life who hadn't know this secret.

"This is a peaceful sight," the sing-song voice of their mother broke the silence, accompanied by the clacking of her heels.

"Just reflecting," Pierre said softly.

She looked at her mother properly since the first time she'd come home. Her mother was still appallingly youthful looking but she had started to age. It was evident in the softening of her middle and the dullness of her skin. And there was such tiredness in her face but such happiness too.

"I didn't really hug you, properly, when I came home."

Anna stood up and didn't give her mother the chance to do that thing she did where she stepped back, so the hug was merely perfunctory. She wouldn't let her say 'ha' and then brush her hands over her lapels to wipe the hug away.

She was stiff at first – it had been so long since Anna had properly embraced her mother, not just literally but in every other way too – but she relaxed into it.

"I missed you so much my Anna, my baby."

And Anna was sobbing again.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Please review.


	28. Part 3 - One

**Author's note:** Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the reviews. I'd be delighted if you'd continue reading and enjoying. For those guests who review but I can't message, thanks.

* * *

 **Part 3**

"I think we should tell her," was her opening gambit as she settled down on the seat in front of his desk.

Despite the fact Joseph really didn't want to be impatient, he was overwhelmed with work. Problematically he was in the middle of organising the funeral of the king. Turning his daughter away though was not an option so instead he took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for an onslaught of tangential conversation.

"You should have black on," he said quietly, eying her jeans.

"I know," she nodded, "I forgot, honestly. I'll go and change. So, what do you think?"

He pushed the map for the cortege aside, "About what?"

"You know…telling mama I know."

He felt suddenly frustrated with her lack of understanding.

"Anna," he tried to remain patient, "Anna I think that's a truly terrible idea. I really do."

She looked despondent, "Why?"

"Because right now she has enough on her plate. Do you understand that?"

"She always does," she said calmly, "And it might be the right time. Rupert has died and it means you can be-"

He suddenly understood the motive behind her desire to tell Clarisse and felt ignorant for not seeing it immediately.

"Anna," he interrupted gently, "Anna, what do you think will happen?"

She was nineteen and he'd thought her more mature than she actually was. His stomach felt slightly queasy.

"Anna, what do you think will happen?"

"You and mother…" she trailed off, perhaps realising how ludicrous the idea was.

He felt suddenly sad for her, "No, Anna. Anna that won't happen."

She looked crestfallen, despite the fact she had been so sure of herself the moment before. He was touched though, and incredibly moved, that she had thought it would be so simple and that she so evidently wanted it.

"But-"

"Sweetheart-"

"But you still love her," she said suddenly, interrupting him, "Don't you?"

"Yes, yes of course. It simply isn't as easy as all that Anna, surely you see that?"

She shook her head, "No I don't."

"Anna, imagine how she would look. Right now Phillippe is ascending to the throne and the Renaldi rule is vulnerable. Imagine if the former queen decides she's in love with the bodyguard. She'd be lambasted."

He could see the misery on her face. How terrible it must be, to think you were about to be validated, simply to have that taken from you. He stood up and, coming around to stand beside her, crouched at the chair.

"You know, your mother is so delighted you're home."

She nodded and he could see she was fighting tears.

"It is not fair," she suddenly mumbled, "I thought…"

He squeezed an arm around her, "I know what you thought. I know. I understand it."

He found it oddly humiliating to be having this conversation with her. He had been refusing, in reality, to have it with himself which was as much a problem as any. Rupert's death had alit a dangerous hope in him, one that could only lead to misery.

"Do you want it?"

Her candid question caught him off-guard and the only option was to be honest with her.

"More than anything in the world."

She nodded then, "Promise me you will try."

"Anna, there has been so much before-"

"Are you scared?"

He laughed, though it lacked humour, "Terrified."

It was therapeutic to say it.

"I used to think both of you were selfish," she touched his cheek softly, much as her mother used to do, "But now I see that you weren't. She's haunted by what she's done, and so are you. It's not selfishness, it's pain."

He was mute in the face of her honesty.

 **-0-**

Clarisse, though she wouldn't have dared voice it, was relieved to see the funeral come to a close. Death, despite how dignified it was supposed to be, was never dignified at all. She stood motionless as Priscilla unzipped her black crepe de chine dress and let it fall to a puddle on the floor.

"I have drawn a bath for you, Your Majesty," she said gently.

Since Rupert had died, it was as if someone had wiped the collective memory of the palace and replaced it with the fantasy that her widowhood would be a misery for her on a very personal level. It would be a misery, certainly, but not a typical one. In fact, Rupert's death made her feel void of feelings. At times they were friends and on other occasions, bitter enemies. The complexity had been there, until the very last breath he'd drawn.

She didn't know how she was supposed to feel.

The misery grew from elsewhere, black and huge, and she hadn't yet decided what was tending it and nursing it to fruition.

She would leave this malaise, as she did every other dark moment of her life, behind because she did not have the luxury of wallowing. She slid into the deep bath, the slickness of the bath oil gathering around her protectively, enveloping her in heat.

She wouldn't have time to wallow because she had a coronation to organise in the next four months. Phillippe was now Phillippe the Third, King of Genovia. Then she could hand it all over and be done with it, every part of it apart from the love of her son and daughter. Then her life might begin as it should have been and at that, an insecure smile threatened her mouth.

"Long live the king," she whispered to the empty room and she really meant it.

She let her body slide deeper into the water, grateful for the solitude and silence. Her sons and daughter were in the film room, seeking solace in a comedy, which Pierre had scoffed at, and eating ludicrous amounts of candy.

Tonight she'd let that go, she supposed. Today she had let lots of things go, sliding down into the Renaldi tomb with the friend who was supposed to have loved her.

She'd asked them not to fret, not to worry her by visiting with her constantly, and in all truth she wanted to be alone. Tonight she sought sleep and her bed and all of those things which would let her, just for a moment, forget.

She spent an hour or so in the bath, until the water grew chilly in a cruel way, and then pulled on the soft cotton robe she was fond of. She planned to retire, maybe take a few sleeping pills, and find dreamless oblivion in her bed.

It seemed, when she stepped into the sitting room, that Joseph had other plans. He'd retired the guards no doubt, and snuck in.

She didn't care, for the first time ever. She knew it was misguided and, at worst, dangerous, but she couldn't say it was worrying her.

She examined the bottle of scotch and crystal glasses on the coffee table before her and awarded him with a quizzical eyebrow.

"I figured you needed some help sleeping."

She looked at him, "And you think you can do that?"

He smiled solemnly, "I figure I'm better than sleeping pills."

"Precariously near the knuckle," she answered, "But infinitely right."

He nodded and corked the vintage bottle.

"It seems awfully like we're celebrating," she murmured, taking the glass he offered nonetheless.

"Commiserating," he corrected sincerely, clinking the crystal against hers.

"Commiserating," she ran her finger around the rim of the glass, "From Queen Consort to Queen Regent in one fell swoop."

"How are you feeling?"

She swirled the golden liquid around for a moment and considered his question.

"Blunt. Afraid for my son…afraid," she sighed, "Afraid is the best way to describe it. I don't know if I can handle it all alone."

"That's tiring," he leaned forward and touched the back of her neck, still damp from her bath, "I mean, not being sure if you can do it."

"It is," she agreed, tipping the contents back in one burning gulp and holding out the glass for more.

"Fancy slowing down there? And I know you can do it."

"No," she shook her head, "Not in the slightest. And no, you don't."

"You don't often drink," he poured it for her anyway.

"But when I do, terrible things often happen," she sat back on the couch and leaned into him, tipping her head on to his shoulder.

"I can't argue with that," he sighed, "Regale me with the story of your first drunken adventure."

"I was fifteen," she smiled slightly, "And I drunk the pantry dry of Christmas eggnog, was profusely sick, and scolded hugely by my father."

She paused and laughed a little, "But it was delicious. Fattening but delicious."

"It is delicious," he agreed, taking a sip from his own glass.

"You?"

"Thirteen," he shrugged, "Andre and I stole a case of beer from my father's bar, went to the beach and got trashed. My mother still holds a grudge about it to this day."

She laughed at his embarrassed smile.

"Tell me what you were you like as a boy again?"

"Boisterous, idiotic," he answered, "I didn't know when to hold my tongue or my fists. Apart from with girls, I was smooth with girls."

"You still are," she said dryly.

"Thank you. I will assume that's a compliment."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know," he whispered, "But not tonight. You shouldn't be alone tonight."

In an unusual move, one that she could tell shocked him a little, she lay down so her head was in his lap, her face towards the warmth of the fire. Silence descended over them then and it was a good while before she spoke, both of them simply content to stare into the flames.

"I want to promise you but I cannot. I cannot promise you anything, not right now. As Pip's Queen Mother I have to support him. He'll be on the throne soon and then…then we'll see."

She felt his body go tense and could not bear to look at his face.

"I know that," he ran his fingers over her hair, "That isn't want I came for."

"No?"

"No," he traced his finger over the shell of her ear and it made her shiver.

"No," he continued, "I came to show you that I love you. That no matter the darkest places you find yourself, I will be there. I promised, once, to always love you. I have to show you that – now that I have the freedom, more than ever. Time will do the rest."

She turned to stare up at him, her eyes locked on his.

"Do you know," his fingers wandered over the tie of the gown, "Do you know that water makes this transparent? I've been trying hard not to point that out to you since you came into this room."

She felt a blush, not as a result of the fire, climbing over her chest.

"You took me by surprise."

"I took you by surprise," he murmured, "Now let me take you to bed."

"You shouldn't be here."

Her voice was weak.

"You shouldn't sleep alone, not when you don't have to."

She bit her lip nervously and scolded herself for doing it. There was a black smoulder in his eyes. Usually it was desperate passion, unrelenting fire, but right now it was a spark promising a blaze.

She nodded in silence and allowed him to scoop her up and take her to her bedroom.

"Tonight," he peeled the water soaked cotton from her body, discarded it on the chair beside her bed, and turned her to face the windows so she could see the glittering stars. The déjà vu was so overwhelming, her legs buckled beneath her and he had to catch her tightly around the waist to prevent her from falling, "Tonight I get to worship you and I get to do it without…"

From behind he kissed the nape of her neck, "Guilt," then trailed a row of kisses down her spine, "Or jealousy," he finally concluded on his knees, his hands gripping her hips, "Or anger."

Then he pivoted her to face him and the smile on his face stripped her of the last fragments of those feelings too.

* * *

So what did you think? Please review.


	29. Part 3 - Two

**Author's note:** I usually post weekly, which works for me, but I hate and love this chapter equally and had to get it over with. Please don't hate me for it and please, please review if you can!

* * *

Anna was engrossed in the book Joseph had given her, insisting that 'Catch 22' would be something 'she had to read'. He hadn't been wrong and while her intentions for the day had been all good, she realised she'd lost track when the only thing that interrupted her was a crashing storm that had soon seemed a fitting soundtrack to her reading. It was almost midnight when she finally looked up again and she hadn't even left her chamber.

She was supposed to have discussed her dress for Phillippe's coronation with her mother at nine p.m. and was sheepishly considering how she'd get herself out of this one. Then it occurred to her that she could definitely use the fact that she'd had to _make_ an appointment in the first place to guilt her mother into silence. Since she'd taken over the majority of the work, time with her mother had become even scarcer to come by. She could even maybe tell the truth but her mother would not like that. Frivolity did not appeal to Clarisse Renaldi. She reluctantly put the book aside and pulled on her zipper and girded herself to face the music.

The corridor of the family apartments was quiet, unusually, and there weren't the typical staff by her door that there ordinarily were. She wasn't alarmed, mainly because she was totally absorbed by the fact that she'd failed to turn up for the meeting with her mother when she was supposed to. She turned into the other corridor and was faced with a surprise wall of staff, some engrossed in deeply serious conversation, and others with heads in hand, and others huddled in groups.

She'd seen this before but this time there was no sensible candidate for death.

She clasped Felix's arm, "Felix, what's-"

"Princess," the voice was at the other end of the body of staff and advisors but she knew who it was.

The sea of people parted and she saw Joe standing as if he was guarding a gallows. His face was grey with shock and his clothes were soaked through. There was blood caked over his wrists and hands and embedded in his finger nails. She didn't know what to do but the sight of the blood petrified her.

"Joe, Joe what's happening?"

He just shook his head and beckoned her forward.

"Joe," fear shuddered in her voice, "Joe what's happening?"

He said nothing as she came towards him. She thought he'd lost the power to speak suddenly, as if he'd been robbed of words.

"Just come with me," he clutched her hand and pulled her into the outer chamber of her mother's apartments.

Here it was quieter but there were as many people. Most of Parliament were here and most of the interior administration were gathered. Sebastian was standing by the window, his face almost as barren as Joe's.

Phillippe was his childhood friend. Phillippe, she thought desperately, where is Phillippe?

"Joe," she squeezed his fingers, "Joe please. Please, where is my brother?"

The whole company turned towards her and then Sebastian dropped to his knees in front of her.

"The king is dead, long live the queen."

At that moment she thought she was about to faint but her father was behind her, gripping her elbows with bloodied hands.

"Anna," he leaned forward, his voice in her ear the only thing cutting through the rush of blood in her head, "Anna, go towards your mother's bedroom."

"I can't, I can't," she suddenly found herself saying, "Joseph I can't. I can't."

She was referring to so many of the things she couldn't do right now. Her brother was dead and she couldn't cope with that, she couldn't see her mother in the agony she knew would be clutching her, she couldn't be queen.

He propelled her forward through the silence and gauntlet of people. He held her elbow while he placed his scarlet hand on the door handle and pushed down.

She could see everything in almost euphoric detail, in terrible slow motion. She scanned her mother's quiet chamber, her eyes alighting on the woman huddled in the window seat. It took a moment to realise it was, in fact, the woman who had given birth to her. This wasn't the same woman she'd eaten breakfast with this morning, while Phillippe made them laugh and Joe sat quietly by, his head in the newspaper. This wasn't the woman who'd only dealt with her husband's death two months before.

This wasn't the woman who smiled despite herself, who laughed despite her terrible misery.

This woman was a shell.

"Oh mama," escaped her own mouth in the most pitying cry and she shook Joseph off to go towards her.

Her mother looked up from the window, her misery etched all over her face. It was streaked with sore tears, raw with the rub of useless handkerchiefs and stretched and torn with cries of despair.

"Mama, mama…"

She pulled her mother towards her, perched uncomfortably on the window seat on which she'd once read books and played games with the queen.

Now that queen was unravelling in her arms.

"I am so sorry mama," she sobbed, "Oh mama, Phillippe."

"My little boy," her mother said to no one, "My son."

She nodded silently, shocked by the feel of her mother's shuddering tears. She looked up towards Joseph, standing nearby, and saw his tears too. He came to sit on the other side of Clarisse and wrapped his arm around her, so she was stuck between them both.

"Please, don't make me go out there," her mother eventually whispered, her head falling forward, "I cannot go out there."

Joseph stood up, "I will handle it. Anna, the doctor will arrive soon to give your mother something to help her sleep. I've already phoned Pierre, he's waiting on his plane."

"Mama, I will stay."

Her mother shook her head, "They will need you-"

Joseph cut in softly, his hand darting out to touch her mother's shoulder, "No, Anna wants to be with you. You need her right now."

They would have to tell her soon, now, fate had forced their hand. Anna could not be queen, she did not have it in her.

Joe disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and re-emerged moments later with a bloodied towel but clean hands.

She wanted to ask if that was the last of her brother but she already knew the answer. Arm still around her mother, she watched as he came towards them both and knelt in front of the woman he loved.

"I don't know what to say to you," he took her head in his hands and kissed her forehead, "I have no idea what to say to you."

Then he stood. Before he left he took a fortifying breath and turned to her, smiling so sadly she thought his heart might stop there. When the door opened, she could hear the clamour of a country already moving on to its next ruler.

"Come mama," she said softly, "Come and lie on the bed."

She settled atop the sheets and tucked herself in behind her mother. There was silence then, broken only by the occasionally too-loud conversation from the other room. It crossed Anna's mind to pity poor Charlotte, hardly a novice but not exactly a veteran, of this kind of situation.

"I am so sorry," her mother said after a while, "I am so sorry that you had to see this, that you will have to go through this. This wasn't what we wanted for you."

"Stop apologising," she ran her fingers gently over her mother's hair.

"This is punishment," her mother muttered, "I thought it had hurt enough."

"Mama, I have no idea what you are talking about," she lied, knowing it was the only thing that would save her mother now, "But for all that is good, you are the most wonderful mother in the world."

"You cannot possibly think that. He's dead because of us."

"Hush mama."

Her sobs started afresh, raw and guttural, coming from deep inside her. Anna felt tears on her own face again, only interrupted when the door opened far across the room and Joe came in once more, followed by the new royal surgeon.

Clarisse made to sit up but he stopped her with a gentle hand.

"Please, Your Majesty."

The surgeon approached the bed and began removing some materials from his bag. Normally her mother would have asked what it was or even refused to take something to put her to sleep, but she mutely held out her arm and Joe rolled the sleeve of her fine cashmere jumper up. From behind, Anna wrapped her arm around her mother's waist.

The doctor cleaned the crook of her elbow and tapped for a vein.

"This should help you sleep," he said gently, sliding the needle into her willing skin.

She merely nodded and let him push the plunger all the way, until there was only a dribble of the clear liquid left.

"Your Majesty?"

She was so intent on her mother, and assumed that it was her mother to whom the doctor was speaking, that she didn't realise he was talking to her.

"Anna."

Joe nodded towards the man.

"Oh, oh," she looked at the surgeon, "I'm not Your…"

She realised then why he'd called her it and terror coursed through her but she simply shook her head, afraid she'd blurt out the truth if she had to open her mouth.

"I'll remain until she wakes," he said kindly, then allowed Joseph to walk him out.

By the time they had closed the doors her mother was already sleeping.

At some point in the following hours she'd crawled onto the seat by the bed. She'd had to pull the sheets over her mother because it had grown unseasonably cold and her mother's hands were freezing. She'd taken the fur throw to the big plush chair and wedged herself in because she was small enough to do so. She woke when it was just new light – no one had entered to close the drapes or pull the shutters or tidy the tea trays and the sun had been allowed in. It broke her fitful sleep violently but for the first few second she couldn't remember the reason for her being here, on the chair by her mother's bed. Then, as she always would from that moment on, she remembered the dried blood on Joseph's hands. She forced her own eyes open and realised that Joe was on the bed too. Her mother was under the covers, still in her cashmere sweater, her hair plastered sweatily to her forehead. Her father lay atop them, shoes still on and a fresh suit jacket over himself. His arm was draped over her mother's waist and clutching her hand, his body curled into hers from behind. He looked huge in comparison to her mother's small form but protective too, as if he had wrapped himself around her to shield her from the world.

In other circumstances she would have been warmed at the sight of it, the absolute honesty of the situation, but it just hurt that it could only happen under these circumstances. As if he knew what Anna was thinking he lifted his head up to look at her over her mother's hair.

She doubted her mother would wake up from her drug induced sleep any time soon.

"Let's talk," he whispered, motioning to the sitting room.

She looked wary for a moment and he understood and assured her, "They're all gone."

Her body sore, she grimaced a she pulled herself up and followed him into the sitting room. She could see he was limping, his knee obviously sore and stiff and he wasted no time in sitting down and massaging it grimly. She stared at her father and knew how old he looked now, how old he had suddenly become. He hadn't shaved and he looked dirty and exhausted. She noticed his shirt was torn at the shoulder, the skin underneath scraped and bloodied and embedded with grit, which she hadn't noticed the night before.

"Why don't you go and shower?"

"I will," he whispered, "But you first. I want to make sure you are okay."

"I am papa," she whispered, for the first time ever.

He looked startled for a moment then his face crumpled into tears. She lowered herself onto the couch beside him. Her mother's chamber was a mess; there were empty tea cups everywhere, notes and scraps of paper, newspapers, and files. There had been so many people only hours ago and now all that was left were ghosts.

"How do I help her?"

"We'll do it together," she whispered, trying to be as calm as possible, "Where did they all go?"

"I told them to go home," he muttered, "The press release is out. The nation's grieving. Charlotte only went to sleep when I did, after Pierre arrived."

She nodded and realised she didn't even know what had transpired, "What happened?"

"A crash," he turned his hands out, staring at them, "He died in my arms. In my arms Anna. He was just a…"

A gasp of tears rushed out of him and, unable to watch him, she let her head fall into her hands.

"We have to tell her," she whispered, "Papa I can't be queen."

She knew it was a selfish thing to say but it wasn't really either. She knew she had to say it now, while they could save her mother any more humiliation.

"Anna-"

"You know I can't be queen," she whispered, "You know I can't. I would be hanged if it ever came out, as a pretender to an ancient throne. And you…and mama…it's unthinkable."

"It won't come out," he said, his voice a desperate growl.

"Please," she said quietly, trying to reason with desperation, "Please don't ask this of me. It might make her happy right now, because it is easier, but it will simply cause problems in the future. Problems too big for you, or me. Papa, you know I am right."

"She's going to bury your brother," he whispered, shaking his head, "That's a bigger problem than any other."

She took his hand, "Just imagine what you're asking me to do. Things were never supposed to be this way but they are now. You're not thinking straight right now, and that's okay, but you will have to soon and then you'll need to have heard this. I was never supposed to be queen and I won't be."

He nodded quietly as if his senses had suddenly returned to him, "I know. I am sor-"

"Don't," she whispered, "I understand why you're asking me to do it. I am just saying I can't. You need to know right now that I can't. I don't have to tell her right now but I want you to know. You need to be clear on this."

"No," he agreed, "I understand."

She lay against him then but the tangy smell of old blood was too much to bear.

"I'm going to shower," he whispered, as if he knew, "I'll send Pierre in and you can go."

She nodded and kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm not angry at you Anna," he said gently, "You have to know that."

"I know you're not papa."

He smiled weakly, "I never thought you'd call me that."

"Neither did I."

It wasn't long until Pierre appeared. He was exhausted looking, his collar half undone and his shirt tails hanging out. He had been crying too; his eyes were puffy and red.

"Where were you?"

"The chapel," he slumped down beside her and pulled her into a hug, "But I can't talk to God. No one's answering. He was such a good person. Such a good…I don't know."

She nodded then smiled at the memory of Phillippe swinging from the balcony just that morning, "He was a maniac."

Her brother laughed, "Yeah, he was. He had too much left though, so much more to give to the world."

She nodded, "Someone should tell Amelia."

She thought it was miserable that this was the first time it had occurred to anyone to let his daughter know.

"Mama will, when she is ready," he sighed.

"She'll already know," she suddenly whispered, "It will be all over the web, all over newspapers. She won't understand the significance though. Mother will probably phone Helen to explain…"

She walked to the window and saw the huge crowd, mourning and seething outside the gates of the palace.

"They're already gathering."

Pierre laughed without humour, "They've not had long to wait."

She nodded and watched as her brother closed the curtains over.

"Anna," he said after a moment, still facing the wall of curtain, "What are you going to do?"

She stared at his back.

"I'm not going to do it. Why do you ask?"

He turned to her, "Because I want to support you. Whatever you choose. That is all."

"Pierre I am not the right material. I'm not even genetically the right material and that's…that's a bigger lie than I can ever live with," she said, aware her voice was desperate, "I can't do it."

"That's okay."

There was silence but then she thought of something else.

"Will you do it, revoke your abdication?"

He shook his head and came towards her.

"Why not?"

"For the same reason as you. I'm not the right material. I'm different material from you but I'm not the kind that can do that job."

After a moment's silence she spoke again;

"Pierre, how did you know?"

He looked confused then nodded as understanding dawned.

"My mother and father…" he stared at his hands, "I knew they weren't happy. God, Anna, you need only look at you to know you're not a Rinaldi. No one had to point out how striking you looked, different. At any rate, father kept it to himself though I knew he suspected. I imagine he couldn't humiliate her," Anna nodded, "He wasn't a bad person, not really, not below all the bravado and snobbery. Then, I suppose, it became obvious as Joe became more involved in your life. But who were we to refuse you and love you any less? You didn't choose. Pip and I agreed…we agreed we'd love you as much as we could. God! Phillipe loved you Anna. And anyway, my mother deserved some happiness. Something, anything, at times. If you could see the way Joe looks at mother, really see it, you'd know. And if you could see the way he looks at you…it'd take your breath away."

She smiled at him, a genuinely grateful smile.

Then Anna felt her stomach curdle, "This will kill mama. She's worked so hard to keep this together."

He nodded his agreement, "So we help her through it."

"What will happen?"

"Technically Amelia is his heir, his successor. The marriage was annulled so she's not illegitimate," he shrugged, "But there will be widespread displeasure."

"How can she possibly manage that?"

Anna knew that it would be impossible for her mother to face another abdication but she could not lie. Now it seemed selfish but after it would be right. She knew it was the moral, the correct, the proper thing to do.

"Two abdications," she continued, "Have you heard of it before?"

"Not that I can recall," he shrugged, "But why not make history?"

She sunk down further in the couch and let him pull her into his arms as she sobbed.

* * *

So, by far the worst but most enjoyable to write. What did you think?


	30. Part 3 - Three

**Author's note** : Thank you, thank you, for such positive reviews! Please keep on going and enjoying it.

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Clarisse looked at the clothing laid out on the chaise in her dressing room. She was sick to the teeth of black. It was funny, but when your son died, you thought of the blandest things to be angry at. Everything made her angry. But everything felt blunt too, as if she had been a knife hacked relentlessly against stone until she was soft and chipped at the edges.

And where she had chipped she was bleeding life.

She turned from the clothes and wandered into the sitting room. It was the first moment she'd had alone in the last week, and yesterday she had visited his body lying in state at the church.

It was a horrible thing to visit your son's body, put in place so people could parade around it.

He had looked so beautiful there, not a mark on his face. He had bled, Joseph told her, from the inside out.

Just like her right now. You couldn't see it, of course, but her life was flooding out of her body.

Someone had left a tray of tea for her, a pear tart set at its side as a subtle hint that she needed to eat. She didn't want to let anything aside from prayer pass her lips.

Anna had essentially refused to leave her side but Clarisse had convinced her to go and shower, phone some friends, read a book. The girl had been her only limited pleasure in the last few days. She had fallen in love with her even more, if that were at all possible.

"Clarisse," she looked up towards the door, to find Anna and Joseph standing there.

Both were showered and casual, sweat pants and t shirts and socks.

She had always scolded Anna for wearing socks over the slick marble floors of the palace. She was shocked the girl had yet to break a leg.

"Mama," she whispered, her voice timid with something Clarisse couldn't place, "Mama, can I speak to you?"

"Of course."

Joseph stood behind the settee as Anna settled herself across from Clarisse, refusing to meet her eyes.

Clarisse knew terrible news was coming but she felt as if she were floating above it. Nothing, she imagined, could truly feel worse than here and now. Nothing could hurt more.

"Mama, I know."

There was no fanfare, no preamble or jollying around. In fact it was so blunt that for a moment she was puzzled as to what her daughter was talking about.

Then it hit her like a punch in the gut.

She sat back though and pulled the edges of her cardigan together.

"Well Anna, your timing is very poor."

Anna smiled weakly, evidently not sure how to interpret her mother's reaction. Clarisse felt fury building behind her ribs, forcing the oxygen from her lungs. She could not bear to look at Joseph.

"Mama I-"

"Am I to assume this is because you don't want to ascend the throne?"

She swallowed and nodded, "Yes mama."

Clarisse confronted the fact that her world was falling apart by moving on to plan B in her head already. Amelia. Amelia would have to do it.

"Who told you?"

At this Joseph spoke quickly, "Clarisse, I did."

Anna seemed to falter for a moment and then she turned towards her father, levelling a gaze Clarisse did not understand.

In a moment Clarisse was on her feet.

"You promised, you promised me Joseph! I cannot believe you would do this," she realised she was screaming, "You have broken me. You've broken this and us and everything!"

She was thumping his chest, her fists pounding against the hard planes of muscle. She was doing no harm but it helped her to feel like it might, for a second, break him as he had shattered her. She had never wanted to inflict harm more than she did in this moment. Oh Rupert had known, and she had known and Joseph had known but to think, to think her daughter knew was something entirely different in terms of pain.

"Why? Why did you tell her? Why did you do this, why?"

He held her wrists and she looked into his face as he used all his might to stop her, "I had to. She isn't Rupert's heir and it would be wrong."

"I will never forgive you," she turned away from him, her anger blinding her as she lifted and sent an antique side-table crashing to the ground.

"I had to-"

"It wasn't Joseph," Anna cried suddenly, pulling Clarisse back by the shoulders from a Ming vase she was about to grasp and level at him, "It wasn't him! It was Rupert! Rupert told me."

When she eventually turned to look at the man she had loved forever, she knew her daughter was not lying. His look was one of sincerity, of pleading contrition. She knew why he'd lied in an instant, yet it did not remove the sting of the revelation.

She collapsed onto the Persian rug under her feet, her legs losing all of their strength.

"I…," she clutched at her sides and felt her grief as real, physical pain, "I cannot do this. You were never supposed to know."

"Mama," Anna slid down beside her, "Rupert told me when I was eleven! I've known for so long, and I've been happy with it for so long. I, I am glad about who my father is."

Clarisse felt sobs coming faster and thicker than she could handle and the breath in her body was growing so scarce she thought she might pass out. Joseph was beside her then, grasping her shoulders.

"Why did you lie to me?" She gasped, eyes searching his.

The feeling of betrayal was acute – like a sickness she would never shake, a fractured bone that would cause her agony for the rest of her existence.

"Because he thought it would be easier for you to think I'd just learned it. I told him I didn't want him to lie but he did not listen to me," Anna was glowering at her father with a look of anger that almost mirrored his, "He is such a martyr."

"Anna," he whispered, clearly stung.

"Please," Clarisse slid away from them both and propped her back against the couch, "Please stop both of you!"

They nodded almost in tandem.

"Anna, get your mother some water," he ordered and she watched as her daughter sprung from her knees and went to the sideboard.

He fished in his pocket for his handkerchief and offered her it.

"I have failed," she whispered, "We failed."

"No we didn't," he was suddenly stern, "Look at her. If it hadn't been for her, you would not have survived this week. I would not have survived this week."

"I promised him," she shrugged, "I promised him I'd see a Renaldi on the throne. I've tried twice. And I've failed."

He stood up and offered her his hand. She took it and let him pull her up and settle her on the sofa. Stupidly, a minute ago, she had thought this couldn't get worse. Her daughter held out a glass of water and she took it, though the appeal of something more potent was incredibly strong.

"I don't have words-"

"You don't have to explain," Anna shrugged, "It is what it is. And I am at peace with that. I can't be queen, mama, because that is a lie too far. A lie you can't ask me to tell."

"I have so many questions," she found herself muttering, then she looked at Joseph, "When did she tell you?"

"Only last year," Anna interjected defensively, "I told him and it was a relief mama. I hated that everyone pretends."

"Everyone knows?"

She felt herself blanch and vomit rise in her throat. Joseph darted his hand out to press his fingers to hers in an attempt to calm her yet it only irritated her more.

"Everyone does not know," he said smoothly but she saw that he gave Anna a disgruntled look, "Our daughter simply means _she_ knows and…and Pierre. Pierre knows. He guessed, he told Anna he guessed."

Clarisse groaned and tipped her woozy head between her legs. How demeaning it was to realise her son knew just how truly hypocritical she was. Just how stupid she had once been.

The feeling of nausea washing over her, she simply muttered, "Is there anything else either of you would like to tell me?"

"No," she could hear the nerves in her daughter's voice.

"Good," she withdrew her hand from Joseph's, "I need time. Please go."

She could tell, from their almost identical concerned faces, that this was not the reaction they had expected. If they had wanted a screaming, irate woman they had come to the wrong place.

She would be lying to say the outing of this was not a relief, but it was a relief she needed time to digest. She needed time to process it without either of them trying to soothe her.

"Cla-"

"Go," she didn't lift her head, "I need time. Surely you can both give me that."

"Clarisse-"

"Joseph!" She saw that Anna jumped at her cry and realising she'd alarmed her, tried to lower her voice, "Joseph, please."

He nodded and motioned to his daughter to go.

Anna was so like him, so calm and controlled and dominant.

When they were gone she suddenly felt bitterly angry, as if Joseph had stolen her daughter from her. It was ludicrous of course but all she knew now was insanity. It had been so much easier when she was the ringmaster of the circus but now she was as equally a performer as the rest of them.

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I hope you enjoyed. Please review.


	31. Part 3 - Four

**Author's note:** Thank you, thank you, thank you for the genuinely wonderful reviews. Some of them are truly complimentary and I am so very glad you are enjoying this. Please continue to do so.

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Anna announced her abdication from the throne three days after her brother's funeral, as simultaneously as the palace announced the trip to the U.S. for Amelia. He reason had been as honest as it could be; she did not feel able to undertake the task and never would - she was not made for ruling. It was as if the country couldn't believe it, as if they couldn't possibly imagine any more weakness from the Renaldi rule.

Sebastian sat in front of her as Joseph watched from nearby. She had locked herself away for weeks and built herself up enough to face them. She hadn't once mentioned their revelation of the night before Phillippe's funeral and he and Anna had decided they weren't going to mention it either.

"Your Majesty," Sebastian said politely, "It's probably the stronger case for the throne anyway, after all, Amelia is his actual heir."

"If she wants it," the queen said at length, "And if not –"

"That is unthinkable," Sebastian said fervently.

Clarisse raised a brow, "Surely, by now, the world has taught us that nothing is unthinkable with my children and I wager my granddaughter will be just as determined. As I was saying if not, Sebastian, there has to be a contingency plan in place and your government, at my directive, have to enforce that. We are currently sitting without a legitimate monarch and you and I know how vulnerable this makes us in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of our people. The Renaldis are the leaders of a constitutional crisis that's been alive and kicking since Rupert died. We both know A Queen Regent is not a long-term strategy."

Hearing it put in those terms, he felt the bilious sickness of the previous weeks welling inside him. He knew now that he and Anna had miscalculated spectacularly in telling her. They had lacked the insight they needed to see it from her perspective.

It was the first time he'd heard her voice her reasons for such a violent reaction and he wanted to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness.

He couldn't imagine what it would have felt like to have two people you love most in the world rend all you had worked for to shreds.

He watched Sebastian go then and realised that it was the first time he'd been alone with her since they had told her.

"Lock the door," she said softly, "We need to talk."

He did as he was bid, frightened to look at her. This was her first day of ordinary proceedings since the death weeks before. In two weeks, they would leave for America. Over the course of three months, Clarisse had gone from being a wife and the mother of three to a widow and a mother riddled with grief. She was dressed in black, her make-up and hair perfect, but her smile had changed. It had become desperate, as if all the energy in her body was geared towards that one physical cue of happiness.

He wondered if he'd ever see her proper smile again.

He moved to sit at the desk but she motioned to the couches.

"This isn't a meeting," she said, "And it isn't a reprimand. Stop mentally packing your apartments, I can see you doing it."

He laughed a little but was too afraid to give the joke the laugh it merited.

"I want to apologise-"

She held up her hand, "We once vowed we wouldn't do that, didn't we? It seems we are both terrible at keeping any vows we make."

Her humour had grown bitter too, it seemed.

He nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me when you knew? Why didn't you say when she told you?"

He considered her question, "Because all you had worked for would have been ruined."

"And that was Rupert's fault," she said it without resentment, "Rupert told her. Not your fault Joseph. Joseph, I need to be able to trust you. You are the only person I've ever trusted…but…but, plainly put, you lied to me. Regardless of the fact it was an omission, you kept that from me. I-"

"We got back to where we were, before she told me," he admitted in his interruption, disgusted because he was saying it, "You loved me again."

"I have never stopped loving you."

He could tell from the tone of her voice that she was hurt by his admission. He took her hand in his.

"Clarisse, imagine if I'd come from Paris and told you she knew. That Rupert had told her," he sighed, "Imagine your reaction. I begged her not to tell you initially and I am at fault for that. But Rupert was sick – we both knew – Anna was safe, we were close again. It wasn't the right time. I don't know if I really regret it, not fully, but I know I am to blame."

She nodded in agreement, "Yes, you are. But then if we are going to list our mistakes, we're going to need all night. I don't want to do that. I want you to sit with me, and drink tea, and listen to music that we'll argue over. I want to do that. I need normalcy from you. The next few months, just the thought of them, terrifies me. I need you to be there. I am not begging you, but if I have to I'll plead with you for your support and honesty. But always your honesty, I need that Joseph. Please?"

He smiled his concession to her eloquent request and stood silently.

His shift was coming to a close and he headed to the control room to hand over to Shades and swung by the kitchen for some tea and coffee and a greedy selection of pastries.

When he returned she was more comfortable in lounging pyjamas and in front of the television.

She pointed to the talent show on television, "Phillippe loved this. I've been watching it for him…," Her voice trailed off and he could hear tears, "Do you mind?"

He smiled and touched his lips to her crown, "Not at all."

He'd expected a fight, a bombastic hurling of accusations from all sides, before they both admitted they had been foolish but tonight had been refreshingly different. They were tired now, they were too old for that. And there was too much to make up for, he realised. There was too much love to be throwing it away carelessly again and expecting it not to be sore.

 **-0-**

Anna had been given a fair few alternatives to remaining in Genovia. Technically, when a monarch abdicated, they were not allowed to reside in the country. The parliament didn't enforce this rule strictly, but it was considered in good taste for her to make herself scarce for at least a year and the royal advisors hadn't been subtle in ensuring she understood this. With Pierre it hadn't been an issue; he'd been desperate to leave for Seminary, but for her it was more problematic. She had spent all day deciding her plans and forming dreams for the first time. The fact she wouldn't meet her niece, the girl she'd always wanted to know, pained her but it had to happen that way. It was the only way to ease her mother's panic. It was only a year, only 360 days.

She'd phoned Magda for advice and then, in the spur of a moment, Lady Anna Renaldi applied from university in Geneva, where her aunt now stayed and worked for the United Nations. For the first year, until school started, she'd help her aunt with the new vaccination programme she was going to be running. Then, if she was successful, she'd study medicine.

It was crazy, but for the first time she was excited by the exoticism of an adventure that she would orchestrate and manage.

Her father and mother – how pleasant a thing to think, even if she hadn't voiced it – had promised to fund her for as long as she needed, provided it was a sensible path she chose. Well, actually, it hadn't really been her father at all. That morning her mother had come to her rooms. She was still in her pyjamas and had no make-up on and Anna couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her mother like this.

She was older. Phillippe's death had stripped a veneer from her that had been impenetrable before. Her grief, somehow, made her easier to access. It was terrible, Anna thought, but it was undeniably true.

Clarisse had woken her gently and climbed in beside her in her bed. As a teenager she would have screamed at her mother, the distant traitor, to get out but now she was so happy to have her here, she thought she might burst with the kind of excitement she hadn't felt since she was truly little and innocent.

"I know Joseph…" her mother had started, then stalled, "I know your father writes you letters. I couldn't ever commit it to paper. I couldn't tell you."

Anna nodded and faced her mother. Light was pouring into the ivory room through the gap in the heavy drapes.

"But I want to," she said, "I want to tell you that it wasn't just him. He seems, at times, to have the monopoly on love between us. But I love him so very much. You must think, Anna," she reached out and touched Anna's messy hair, "That I chose this life over both of you. And I did. I will spend the rest of my life regretting that. But then I would not have had Pierre or Phillippe. I am not excusing what I did but I had no choice. When he died, I couldn't have been more grateful that I made the choice I did. Imagine I had abandoned him and he had died on that road without Joseph, without knowing without doubt he was loved. I need to think it was fate, I need to think I was still here for good reason. Do you understand?"

Anna nodded quietly.

"His letters are…" Anna looked for the words, "Some of them are crazy. Some of them are so sad. But all of them are about you. At first they don't seem like they are but then they are."

Her mother smiled, "And if I had had the conviction to commit it to paper, mine would look very similar. I fell in love with him without even realising it. And it was inescapable. I tried very hard, for a very long time, not to love him. I tried very hard."

Anna smiled, "I don't doubt it mama."

"Can you forgive me?"

"There isn't anything to forgive," Anna whispered, "You did what you could in the worst circumstances. Mama, you are a wonderful person. And Rupert, Rupert wasn't a bad person. He just did bad things at times. You spend too long trying to find out what you did wrong rather than seeing the million things you did correctly."

For a long while nothing was said.

"I thought, tonight, you might come and explain to us what you will do," her mother said eventually, "I am going to ask your father to remain for tea and speak to him, so I imagine tonight would be the best time. We'll support you fully, financially too, as long as we approve of your plans. By that, I mean don't come to us and say you plan to go to London to party for a year."

She wondered then, for the first time in a long while, at the nature of their relationship. She wondered if, indeed, they still had a relationship at all. She didn't want to know the ins and outs of it by any stretch of the imagination but she was curious about them, about their future. She didn't even respond to her mother's supportive speech.

"Do you still love him?"

She had to be forthright as there was no other way to voice it.

"Yes, more than anything," her mother nodded, "But there is too much just now. Too much complication. I won't ask him to give any more than he has."

"He would want to," she knew sounded too emphatic.

Her mother looked pensive for a moment, "Let us make those decisions. Know we are friends, and we always will be, and that whatever else happens it won't happen quickly. I have you to think about and hopefully, soon, I will have Phillippe's daughter."

Anna nodded and felt her eyes grow heavy again.

"What time is it?"

"Six a.m.," her mother answered.

"Who gets up at that time, seriously?"

"Today's my first day back Anna," her mother said and there was misery in her voice.

"Oh mama, oh I am sorry. Mama, you will be fine. I know you will be."

"I could sleep here, for an hour, couldn't I?"

For the first time in her life, Anna realised she would, at times, have to be responsible for her mother's happiness. The woman beside her had spent so long catering to everyone else's needs that Anna had never once realised it before.

"Of course mama."

So Anna looked at her final list of plans in the present and felt a twinge of nerves. It was eleven at night now and she should have gone earlier but the application had taken a long time and it still wasn't complete. She made her way along the corridor and nodded to the footmen at her mother's door as they held it open for her.

She had expected to hear voices but there were none. There was an unwatched television, half-empty cups of tea and coffee, and two people curled up on the settee in front of a mindless talent show. Her father's arm was draped around her mother, and her mother's head was tucked under his chin. Neither of them moved when she came in, oblivious to her in their sleep, and she figured that she'd be as well creeping out again, enjoying that image, and finishing her application.

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Thank you. Please review.


	32. Part 3 - Five

**Author's note:** I am, as always, grateful for your support and reviews. I hope this still appeals to your canon sensibilities. If it doesn't, please tell me!

* * *

Clarisse," he admonished softly, not fully prepared to let this escalate into a fiery row, "Clarisse that was incredibly irresponsible."

"I left a note," she said haughtily, setting her handbag on the sideboard and primping her hair in the mirror above it, "I ate a ridiculous thing called a corn dog and then had a gallon, a gallon, of Pepsi. I also arm wrestled a humiliating machine."

"What do you think you are, a teenager?"

He tried not to laugh at her determinedly blank face.

"No, I'm the Queen."

"And I am your Head of Security and the stunt you pulled today," he sat down on the couch, "Was irresponsible."

"What matter if I kick up my heels once in a while?"

He laughed despite himself, "Oh, just a matter of national security."

She slid her jacket off and, coming towards him, laid it over the arm of the couch. He'd asked to see her, away from Amelia, in the privacy of the family room. He had harboured every intention of scolding her but that had melted away very quickly when he realised how happy she was.

"Such seriousness," she stood in front of him and turned slowly, "Check me over. Am I all in one piece?"

"Fortunately so," he stalled her, clutching her hand, "Sit down. You are making me dizzy."

"You didn't check properly," she accused.

"No," he laughed, "I didn't. You have to know that it was totally ridiculous. You do know that?"

She looked genuinely chastened for a moment, "Are you really angry at me?"

He hated that he had to be honest, "No, I'm not angry. I was when I read your note but the smile on your face put my anger to bed quickly. I did worry though. You can't just give me the slip."

She laughed and patted his knee, "Dear Joseph, just be glad I have the wherewithal to want to do it again."

He reached out to push her hair gently behind her ears.

"I think that's why I am willing to let this go," he derived intense pleasure from her smile, "What did you do, apart from eat terrible food?"

"Went to the arcade," she smiled, "The pier too. Joseph, she is so like Phillippe. She's less confident but she looks so like him. So like him."

"Was it good to see?"

"It was…it was perfect," she shrugged, "She's perfect. I wish Pierre could meet her and Anna too."

"They will," he promised, "Everything in good time."

"You must be a real acolyte of that school of thought."

"Patience is a virtue, right? One I've had to learn over many, many years."

"I have schooled you well," she laughed dryly, "Have I not?"

"Incredibly well," he smiled, "I am glad you enjoyed it so much. Don't do it again."

"You have my word," she held up her hand, "And my word is, as they say, my bond."

He leaned in and kissed her temple, "I better go and take her home then?"

She nodded, "Yes, please."

"Alright."

He found the young princess in her grandmother's office, sitting primly in the chair, as if she was the one at fault. She was scanning the photos on Clarisse's desk though, her eyes flitting over and over the faces of her father, her uncle and her aunt.

"Miss Mia," he inclined his head, "Shall we get you home, before your mother begins to worry?"

"Are you angry? You looked angry."

"No," he said softly, "I'm not."

"It's funny, today she mentioned my uncle and my father but not Anna," Amelia looked up at him curiously, "Why not?"

He swallowed, "Anna just abdicated. Her Majesty's still coming to terms with it."

Mia shrugged, "It was as if she never thought she'd be queen ever. She didn't even mention her."

He nodded his understanding, hoping it didn't convey agreement, and motioned for her to move. He held open the door of the limo for her and allowed her slide in the front seat, as she'd been doing since the day he'd spirited her away for breakfast and tried to get her to understand her somewhat enigmatic grandmother a little better.

"Do you know her well?"

"Yes, of course I do. I've worked with her since your father and uncle were children."

Mia laughed a little, "Not my grandmother. It's obvious you know my grandmother. I mean Princess-"

"It's Lady Anna, Miss Mia, if you'll forgive me. She doesn't carry the title of Princess anymore, since she abdicated."

Right," Mia said timidly, watching as he pulled out of the consulate gates, "Sorry, I'll get it eventually."

"Sorry Miss Mia, I didn't mean to sound stern. I just imagine you'd need to know these things as soon as possible."

"It's alright," she smiled, "I just wondered."

"I wasn't there when Anna was born. I was in Spain but yes, I'm very close to her. Your grandmother was much older when she had her. In fact, she's only five years older than you."

Amelia nodded, "I figured that, from what I read on the internet."

He shook his head, "An infernal system for gossip, hearsay and cruelty."

"But much less bias than Clarisse Renaldi."

He laughed, "I'll grant you that. Any questions you ask me, not Google."

"When do I get to meet them?"

He understood her keenness with compassion that was not at all pitying. She had to know what shape she was to fit into the puzzle.

"Soon. As soon as I can make it happen, and your grandmother can, then you'll meet them. I promise you."

"Right," she nodded, "I suppose that's as good as anything."

"Yes, it is."

"Today was good. Have you noticed my grandmother's stopped wearing black Joe?"

He couldn't keep the grin from his face, "Yes. I told her I was the only one around here allowed to wear black."

She laughed irreverently and her grin reminded him, almost painfully, of Phillippe.

 **-0-**

"Anna! Phone."

Her aunt wasn't particularly fond of pleasantries and Anna jumped from her bed, tossing 'Catch 22' back down. She hadn't looked at it since that night but she'd just finished it. She wished she hadn't because she felt like a part of her would never come back now, as if the her before that night was somehow intricately bound up within the ink and paper of the novel.

She ran downstairs.

"Who?"

"Your father," Magda smiled.

She picked up the receiver, "Hello papa."

"Hello Anna," he sounded tired on the other end, "How are you? Any news from school? How's Geneva?"

"Good and not yet," she tried to keep the dejection from her voice, "And it's much nicer than the time I was at finishing school."

She could hear the smile in his voice, "Listen, I was thinking…"

"Si?"

"Ah, are you still practising your Spanish? Good."

She scoffed, "It's habit. Magda insists."

"Zealot," he laughed.

"So," she perched on the edge of the phone table, "You were saying…"

"Ah, yes. God I'm tired Anna, sorry, I lost my train of thought. America, I was thinking America? Two minutes."

She heard her mother on the other side of the world, her musical voice saying her father's name. She wondered but had never yet had the guts to ask if they were together finally. She imagined them sitting together, his hand in hers, him sleeping against her like he had that one time she'd seen them properly. She wanted it to be real but asking would mean she'd really know and it was the first question in her life she didn't want to know the answer to.

"Clarisse," she heard him say, "Give me a minute please. I am on the phone to Spain."

It alarmed her that he'd lied and it was the first thing she told him, aware she sounded accusing.

"You just lied to her."

"Woah. Hold on Anna," he laughed, "You'll understand if you let me explain."

"It better be good, don't lie to her," she grunted.

Her attitude towards Clarisse had quite changed; it had softened and evened out since her brother's death, since the moment she'd come back from Geneva and saw her mother truly, really, for the first time.

"I'm not. Well I am, but it's a good lie."

"No such thing papa dearest."

"Right, well. We'll see if you still think that. I've charted a plane to pick you up for the Independence Day ball. You'll get to meet Mia, and see your mother and myself. I think it'd be good for her to meet you and well, it would delight your mother."

"But I'm not allowed."

"Ah, I've researched the rule inside out and taken advice from Sebastian. Coming to Court in Genovia is frowned upon for at least a year but attending a ball in a consulate half-way around the world as a guest of the family is alright. Trust me. I leave no stone unturned."

"But-"

"Magda knows, she's given you a few days off. It'll be good, trust me?"

She laughed, excitement bubbling in her chest, "Always. Always trust the man in black."

"Which your mother isn't wearing anymore," he sounded giddy with pleasure, like any husband who worshipped his wife.

But, Anna reminded herself quickly, they were not any husband and wife.

"What is she like? Amelia, I mean."

"Like Phillippe," his voice grew more distant, more pensive, "So like Pip. I wore the tie he bought me to meet her. It's frayed, a lot, but…" he laughed weakly, "I hid it with my jacket."

"He'd love that. You looking like a scruff just for him."

"He would, wouldn't he?"

She tipped her head against the wall, "I still think he's alive and then I remember. Do you get that?"

He swallowed, "He wasn't my boy but I loved him like he was."

"Your capacity for love amazes me. You loved them like you loved me. Thank God you did."

She didn't need to see him to know he would have been moved to tears by her honesty.

* * *

So? Please, please, please review.


	33. Part 3 - Six

Author's note: Happy 2016! What better way to start it off than with (for once) a nice chapter? Thank you, everyone, for your support with this story so far. There's more to come but I am always so grateful for your time and feedback.

* * *

"Beautiful, Your Majesty," he bowed.

She smiled gracefully at his reflection in the mirror and began to pull on her evening gloves, "Thank you Joseph. I would say the same about you but you need to fix your bow tie."

He laughed and came to stand beside her at the mirror, his fingers nimbly sorting the tie out.

"You really do hate it, don't you, wearing formal attire?"

"Yes," he nodded, examining the perfect bow at his neck, "But I am used to it now."

"Well," she turned to him, "You look very handsome, I think, personally. And I am under the impression that my opinion is quite important in that regard."

"Such inflated sense of self," he teased, "But thank you."

"What time are we looking at?"

He checked his watch, "It's 7.10."

"So we have time for a quick champagne?"

Her smile was terribly inviting, she knew. She could see it in his eyes.

He cocked an eye brow at her, "Now isn't that irresponsible? But I took the liberty of organising a bottle anyway. One of the staff should be here with it in no time."

She smiled at him and reached out to touch his cheek, loving the feeling of intimacy that it brought around.

"No matter what she chooses tonight," he said softly, "You've done all that you could do."

She felt a little despondent then, "I do know that. I do. Why do you still have such faith?"

He took her hand and led her towards the sitting area in the middle of the suite.

"Because I believe in her."

"Are you suggesting I don't?"

She didn't mean to sound sharp but she realised she had as she arranged her skirts around herself.

"Sorry," she shook her head, "I didn't mean to sound so rude."

"An unusual slip," he touched her knee and she was impressed he could find it under the voluminous material, "Listen, you have to have faith."

She shook her head and resisted a smile, "You're so truly irritating."

"Thank you," he laughed, "My faith irritates you?"

"It amazes me," she said quietly and seriously, not looking up as the maid arrived with the champagne and set it down on the table, "Such genuine-"

"Your champagne ma'am," the maid interrupted.

"Yes, thank you."

"Shall I pour?"

Clarisse, annoyed by the intrusion, felt herself lose her typically endless patience with the staff.

She lifted her head and barked impatiently;

"No, that's quite alright-"

But it faded when she recognised that the girl was not a maid at all.

"Hi mama," Anna grinned, starting to pour, "I see you haven't lost any of your patience."

Joseph laughed as Clarisse turned to him, her incredulity clear.

"Your face!" He laughed.

"You organised this?" She asked loudly, her hand darting out to slap his chest.

"Yes," Anna came round and leaned down to hug her.

Clarisse held her, delight and comfort washing over her. She smiled over Anna's shoulder at Joseph, who was obviously deriving great pleasure from the exchange. She knew she should worry about her daughter and how she got here but she couldn't bring herself to panic. He wouldn't have let this happen if he wasn't sure it was perfectly alright.

And that kind of faith wasn't hard to have when he was around.

"So, this is where you disappeared to today?"

"Indeed, Clarisse," he was suddenly a little more formal, setting back in his chair.

She admired his stoicism in the face of their daughter. They were still reserved – still guilty – despite how hard they had worked to diminish those feelings. Joseph was as old-fashioned as she in that respect; that public affection, which once was impossible because of necessity, was now unlikely because he was afraid or ruining it…and admittedly, so was she.

"I missed you both, so much."

Anna settled on the seat across from them, pulling the slit of her dress modestly across her knee.

"So how are you both?"

"We're well," Clarisse answered.

"But tired?"

"Yes," Clarisse laughed, "Very."

"Mama, it will work out how it's supposed to. It will."

Clarisse smiled at her daughter's inherited faith and nodded, "I do hope so."

"I'm looking very forward to meeting her," Anna motioned to Joseph, "Papa tells me she's wonderful."

She eyed Joseph and he offered her an encouraging smile.

Anna called him papa now. She hadn't noticed it before but it made her feel a twinge of sadness that it would never go further than the three of them.

"Yes, she is. But we can discuss Amelia later. You, what about you Anna?"

She examined her daughter; her relaxed face and unforced smile. Despite the horror of it, Anna's decision had been very much the right one. Clarisse didn't need to ask to know that her daughter felt as if her life had suddenly been justified and made right.

"I have news!"

"Oh?" Joseph sat up.

"That's why I brought three champagne bowls," she smiled, "I got into school."

Clarisse felt the delight of every mother at her daughter's achievements but it was compounded by Joseph's joy. He leaned across the coffee table and took his daughter's hand in his own. Clarisse felt a lump of emotion gather in her throat momentarily at his pleasure, his genuine excitement. It had been so long since he'd been like this, unperturbed by worries or misery or problems, that she wanted so badly for that happiness only to grow.

"Anna! Anna I'm so proud," he smiled, "I am just…"

"I have screwed my head on," she vowed, almost embarrassed by his enthusiasm, "And I will work so hard."

Clarisse smiled, "We know you will, of course you will. I am very proud of you. I believe I speak for both of us when I say we were incredibly proud of you already."

She was blushing remarkably, her face glowing, and she smiled sheepishly and took a huge gulp from her champagne bowl.

 **-0-**

Anna had never attended a party where she was not so high on the guest list people bowed to her. It was truly a relief, and just a little odd, to be on the other side of it. Now she was simply Lady Anna Renaldi who happened to be at the party and eating canapés and trying to find people to speak to who weren't old dukes or duchesses. She still had Leon, her security detail, who'd be with her for the rest of her life because of who her mother was, but even at that it was so much more liberating to walk about a ballroom and not have people bowing to you.

Her mother was fielding press frantically, running her hands over her hair every few moments (which was a sure sign of distress) and her father had taken off to try and find her niece.

It seemed Phillippe's daughter was as spirited as her father.

"You're Anna, right?"

A girl, with short hair and a black dress in which she looked rather awkward, thrust out a nail-polished hand. For a moment Anna recoiled – she wasn't used to people trying to shake her hand – but she realised she had no good reason to reject her.

"I am, yes."

"Lily, Lily Moscowitz," the girl said nervily, "I'm Mia's best friend. I don't know where she is. Do you know anything? Her mom's frantic. I don't know what to say."

Anna felt a little bombarded, canapé still wedged between cheek and gum, "I don't. Where's her mother though? I should like to offer any comfort I can."

Lily motioned with her head to a small, and obviously out of place group, huddled in the corner. One boy had a shock of vibrant almost-pink hair and the other two were obviously older.

"Helen?"

"Hmmm," the woman said from behind a shaking hand.

"I'm Anna, I'm Phillippe's sister."

"Oh! Oh! I am so sorry Princess A-"

"It's Lady Anna, and anyway, that doesn't matter. I am sorry I didn't introduce myself sooner. I always wanted to meet you."

"It's okay," Helen's eyes darted around the overflowing ballroom, "It's just that my daughter had said you would be staying in Europe. It was Lily who said she knew you from the internet. Phillippe always spoke about you."

Anna looked at her neice's purported best friend and raised a brow. The girl simply smiled.

"Joseph, my mother's Head of Security-"

"I know who he is," Helen interrupted, not rudely.

"You do?" Anna smiled, "Well he's gone after her. If there is anyone you can trust to bring her back, it's Joe."

Helen nodded, attempting to feign her encouraged belief, but it just seemed pathetic. She stood with them a while longer, learning that Lily was quite involved in Green Peace (so was Mia when she wasn't AWOL) and that Mia would be a great queen if she'd only stop 'barfing' when she was public speaking.

For the first time in her life, with a sardonic smile, Anna felt old.

 **-0-**

It was always going to go this way, he'd believed, but he hadn't imagined Mia's performance and acceptance speech would be quite as spectacular as it was.

"Listen," he turned to Charlotte, "Let Clarisse field the press, stay with her and get Lady Anna to her side, I'll make sure Mia is ready to go."

Within forty minutes Amelia looked every inch the Crown Princess, in a beautiful white ball gown, that she was, and Clarisse had smoothly answered the immediate questions of the world's press, Anna standing dutifully by. All in all, he was rather pleased with the smoothness of it all. They were only running an hour and a half behind schedule too, which was a success of epic proportions.

He touched Clarisse gently on the arm as she left the press cordon and came into the quiet of the hall between the ballroom and dining room. Now they would enter the ballroom to begin the dancing.

"Stop for a moment."

She didn't even dare to disagree as she fell into the chair and bent down to slip her fingers into her shoe and press the muscles. He watched her for a moment, a laugh lingering at her antics.

"Sore feet?"

She nodded but when she lifted her head there were tears glimmering in her eyes.

"Hey," he fell onto his knees beside her chair, ignoring the pain of an old knee, "Hey, it's alright."

"Oh I feel so silly," she shook her head, "But it is such a reli…"

A little sob gurgled from her throat.

"A relief," he took her shoulders in his hands, "I know. That is alright. You are allowed a moment darling, you really are."

"Oh! So many moments of tears," she shook her head and took the handkerchief he volunteered.

She dabbed the cotton against her cheeks then turned her face either way, "How do I look?"

"Flawless," he whispered, more genuine than he imagined he could be, "Beautiful."

She smiled bashfully then took his offered his hand and stood.

"Tonight, you'll have to massage my feet. Whoever thought these shoes were a good idea may well find themselves facing charges of treason."

He laughed and kissed her hand in the privacy of the corridor. She was so radiant, so truly beautiful, that he felt himself without words.

"A few dances," she nudged him, "Then we can retire?"

"Yes," he nodded to the ante chamber of the ballroom, "Mia's in there. I was going to go and grab Anna, so they could meet quickly before the dancing started. But I thought you might want to have a moment with Mia."

She smiled and nodded, "Thank you. You make everything so much easier."

"That's my job."

His typical defence, his normal modesty, came to the fore.

She stopped him for a moment and touched her lips to his, "No, it's not. It never has been. You do it because you love me. Don't ever think I don't understand that."

He bowed then and turned from her.

 **-0-**

Clarisse thought her granddaughter looked truly breath-taking.

"I'm nervous," Mia whispered, running a gloved hand over her voluminous tulle skirt.

"You have no reason," Clarisse touched her shoulder softly, "You were wonderful out there tonight Amelia. Far better than I could have managed at fifteen."

The girl's smile was hopeful, "Really?"

"Really," she vowed, "I promise you."

"Thanks Grandma."

"You are welcome," Clarisse nodded, "There is someone I would like you to meet."

"It's not another hairdresser, is it?"

Clarisse laughed, "No. Someone far more important to me than another Paolo. My daughter, your aunt, arrived on a surprise trip this evening."

Mia's smile was dazzling, "No way! Really? Shut up."

Clarisse winced.

"Oh, sorry," Amelia apologised, "I just-"

"That's quite alright," she touched her hand lightly, "I understand your excitement."

Mia nodded enthusiastically, "Definitely."

The door opened just as Clarisse was going to ask her how she was feeling now but she didn't have time. The two young women embraced heartily, as if old friends, and she took a moment to wonder, to feel humbled by, the circular nature of it all.

Perhaps she was meant to have felt the pain of this as fully as it was supposed to be felt, as acutely as it was supposed to have been experienced.

Standing there, watching the patchwork of family that had come from the left-side of most of her decisions, she felt another wedge of guilt dislodge, extricate itself from her.

She looked over their heads and saw it in his eyes too.


	34. Part 4 - One

**Author's note:** I absolutely hate this chapter. To the extent that I considered not even posting it. It's just eugghh. But no matter what I did I couldn't make it flow better or seem more sophisticated. In saying that, I don't know the story would be the same without it so I decided (despite how much I didn't like it) to posit it anyway.

Thank you so so so so much for all the reviews. I've never had a story anywhere near 200 reviews! S0 thank you.

* * *

 **Part 4**

 ** _Five years later_**

* * *

Clarisse had been busy when Amelia had arrived from the States, meeting with the Diplomatic Envoy from Britain, and hadn't had a moment to say hello. She was tired, really, and a little fraught with all the organisation that had been going in to the party for her 21st. so to have a moment alone was essential, in order to fortify herself, for the coming weeks of parties and balls and galas to celebrate.

She settled back into her desk chair a little when Charlotte retreated and closed her eyes for a few moments before she was interrupted again.

Of course, this interruption was a little more welcome.

He had been gone almost a week this time, tidying up final details in America, and she had missed their routine and contentment almost as much as she had missed him.

"Hello," she leaned forward and propped her chin on her hands.

"Good afternoon," he leaned across the desk and, as naturally as always, kissed her forehead.

"How are you?"

"I am…tired," he smiled, setting down at the settee in her office, "But no more trans-Atlantic flights for a while, I would like to imagine."

She laughed and joined him, "Where is my granddaughter now?"

"She is catching up with her aunt and uncle, of course," he slid his jacket off and she set it aside, resting over the arm, "And well, she knew you were in a meeting…"

"Yet I wasn't?"

He grinned, "I figured you would have a while in between."

"You are always playing to an unfair advantage Joseph," she laughed, "I have actually cancelled my last appointment."

"Because?"

"Because I am the Queen," she smiled, "Need there be any other reason?"

"None whatsoever," he rubbed his hands over his face, "Amelia is very much planning to monopolise all of your time tonight."

She quirked a brow, "Really?"

"Really," he traced a gentle path over the material of her skirt.

"And you are disappointed?"

He laughed, "Massively."

He kissed her then, properly, not the sort of kiss they would have dared exchange apart from behind closed and guarded doors. It grew more heated, less controlled, and she found herself justifying a lack of productivity and not seeing her granddaughter in exchange for an afternoon in bed.

"Mmmmm," she pushed him away gently, not enough that he was dejected but enough to stall him, "Not right now darling, I have work to complete before Mia…"

"I know," he sighed and moved down to her neck, "But I missed you very much and I wanted to show you."

"Oh, I know," she teased and pulled away, "What are the plans then-"

"Grandma!"

From the outer chambers of her apartment it was evident that her granddaughter had grown impatient.

She looked at Joseph, examined him closely, and swiped the lipstick away from his mouth before he moved to the other seat. Just as he did, a veritable procession trouped into the office.

"Grandma!"

Mia bent down, enveloping Clarisse in a hug.

Anna and Pierre, both taking time out of their own ridiculously busy lives to celebrate their niece's 21st, settled on the other settee.

"Mia has a burning proposition," Pierre said dryly, "And it cannot wait out a de-briefing from your Head of Security apparently."

"What?" Mia asked incredulously, "It is, after all, my birthday. My actual birthday, today. The majority of which I spent flying with Joe here, who was so absorbed in his work he afforded me only a grunt of affirmation at most!"

She laughed at her granddaughter's rather accurate account of Joseph, who was shaking his head in humour.

"How can we make it up to you?" He asked, motioning to the seat beside Anna, which Mia promptly took.

"Well, I figured you could all start by indulging me…"

Anna laughed, "This idea will never fly. Trust me Amelia."

Clarisse exchanged a look with her daughter, who merely smiled.

"And the idea consists of?"

"Well grandma, it is my birthday."

Clarisse nodded, "I quite understand that dear, so let's get to the point."

"Well, I figured you should do what I want. Don't get me wrong, I love a ball grandma, but it's not my idea of a party…"

"Clarisse looked at Joseph, who gave her a crooked smile.

"And I want to do what I want to do."

"Which is?"

"Which is order pizza, and beer, and watch a film in the film room."

Clarisse felt a little underwhelmed by the anti-climax. She'd come to expect radical suggestions from her children and her granddaughter so this seemed to have been treated rather disproportionately.

"I see no issue with-"

"Ah but mama," Anna interrupted, "You have to come too. And Mia thinks it is high time you had pizza…and beer."

Clarisse looked at Pierre sceptically, "We've had pizza before, right?"

"Right mama," he laughed, "Mia wants you to come right off that pedestal though and drink some real American brewskies. I told her you would find this hardly challenging at all, but she seems to think she knows you better."

She turned to Ameila, "That's really what you want? For me to eat pizza and drink beer?"

She laughed a little, "Yeah. That is what I want. Well, for just a night, just us."

"And who is the 'us'?"

"Me, you, Pierre, Anna and Joe."

She looked at Joe, who nodded quietly.

"I suppose it's a far better suggestion than club-hopping."

Amelia laughed, "Yeah, it is."

An hour later she found herself making her way to the film room, girding herself against an onslaught of poor nutritional fare in place of the dinner that she had to ask Cook to cancel. It seemed bizarre to be doing something as light, as frivolous as this, with the people she loved so dearly. The idea of watching a movie and relaxing was so far from her life that she was genuinely excited by the prospect.

She entered to find all of them assembled.

"Late, as usual, mama," Pierre laughed.

"I cannot help but think it amuses you Pierre," she nudged him gently then turned to her granddaughter, "What are you serving up for our viewing pleasure?"

"Romantic comedy of my choice," Amelia stared at her, "I didn't imagine you owned jeans."

"There is so much you don't know about me," she smiled, "And anyway, I thought I should dress for the occasion. Aren't jeans what one wears when eating pizza and drinking beer?"

"Actually," Mia threw her head dramatically towards Joe, "This guy told Adolfo to bring wine when the pizza arrives. Scared for Her Majesty's delicate palate. Always thinking about you, it seems."

She smiled at Joseph. He always took such good care of her.

"I plan to shock even Joseph tonight Amelia," she settled down beside him on the settee furthest from the large screen.

She ignored the grin on his face.

Here, she could doze if she wanted and let the younger ones get the best seat. Plus she could be beside him.

She was not seated for long before Adolfo entered with pizza boxes, stacked so high he was peering over them, and carrying a pack of beer between his fingers with a footman following and carrying the promised wine. The younger ones descended on him like vultures, leaving only a few slices for her to gaze at and realise how unappetising it was.

"Where are the plates?"

Joseph chuckled beside her and handed her a napkin, "No plates."

"Did you just ask for a plate?" Anna asked as she simultaneously uncapped a bottle of beer with worrying skill.

"Yes," Clarisse bristled, taking the proffered napkin and letting a piece of listless pizza flop on to it.

"I see," Anna smirked at her father, who was trying very gallantly not to laugh.

"Joseph," she ordered, "Get me a beer please. Let me prove to these terribly judgemental children that I can hold my liquor."

"You won't like it," he warned, doing as he was asked.

She leaned into him and said quietly, "I'll drink it if it tastes like poison. You know I am stubborn."

He nodded and grinned, "Alright."

"Come on," Mia urged, "The film's starting."

"Alright," Joseph carried her bottle of beer for her and the noise of them clinking gave her chills.

"Salud," he held his up as he handed her the bottle and settled on the couch.

She clinked it against his and grimaced, "Salud."

It was a sad fact that this kind of normalcy had been so out of her reach that she was waiting for something to go wrong. It didn't. In fact by twelve a.m. they all trundled off to their respective chambers, the night as uneventful as it had been wonderful, and she slept properly for the first time in a very long while.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it more than me!


	35. Part 4- Two

**Author's note:** Thank you for the reviews on the previous chapters. I was genuinely pleased since I didn't feel the last one was very well written. Thank you, thank you. We're nearing the end and I hope you're still enjoying it as you did previously. Please let me know!

* * *

Anna groaned, lifted her head and let it fall back onto the pillow again. The sun was coming into her bedroom but she didn't have the energy to get up and close the drapes. Her mother had said she could have Olivia while she was here but the maid obviously hadn't got round to that chore yet. It was a Sunday and the day after the biggest party the palace had seen in a long time, which had gone on long after Queen Clarisse Renaldi had retired and at which Anna had celebrated her recent qualification as junior as fully as Amelia had celebrated her twenty-first birthday.

Her niece lifted her head too and then grumbled and lay it back down.

"I'm convinced this isn't your room," Anna nudged her, "And that my mother would consider falling asleep in your ball gown very unladylike."

Amelia laughed but quickly grimaced, "My head aches. It really aches."

"That's booze for you," Anna sat up slowly, "I mean, it's terrible for your liver."

"And your reputation."

"Don't be silly," she smiled and passed her niece a glass of water, "You were very graceful. By the time you were flying, all the old snots had left anyway."

"Did grandma see?"

"Ha, no. She bowed out with Joseph just before the band packed up and the D.J. began thumping out some seriously crummy nineties music."

"Hey," Mia defended, "That is good music."

Anna flopped back down beside her, "What's on your schedule today?"

"Nothing, thankfully," she smiled and sipped with a scowl, "I think grandma has a meeting with parliament but she gave me permission of leave."

Anna laughed, "Such charity."

The door to Anna's room was unceremoniously flung open, startling them both from their sore state.

"Good morning ladies."

It was Pierre. Jolly and fresh and already looking to irritate them.

"It's Sunday," he tickled the sole of Mia's foot and she pulled it away aggressively, "And I thought I'd treat you both to a Mass in the small chapel, since you should both atone in some way."

"No, thanks Pierre," Anna smirked, "Our niece still has gifts to open."

"Are you sure? Perhaps a long, hot walk in the hills or a game of tennis for us? You should sweat all that champagne out?"

"Did anyone ever tell you you're really annoying?" Mia grunted.

"Actually, he was the alright one," Anna climbed from the bed and threw a loving fist at her brother's chest, "Pip was the joker. Always fooling about."

Mia looked wistful a moment, "Sometimes I think something's missing and I wonder if it is that, if it's him."

Anna felt her chest constrict then and the image of bloodied hands had to be forced back into the recesses of forgetfulness, "It is. He'd be amazed by you, you know."

Mia smiled and shrugged, "Uncle Pierre, I don't know if I could cope with all your suggestions. But I think I could cope with pancakes. What about pancakes in the kitchen?"

He nodded, "I'll tell cook. Good idea."

He went from the room and Anna could feel Mia's eyes on her. She'd dropped her gown to the floor and was now putting on her sweats.

"Are you putting clothes on?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't showered."

"Mia, it's Sunday. At the palace. No one comes and goes. Well Parliament sometimes does but trust me," she laughed sardonically, "They've seen me in worse states."

Mia laughed and prepared to sneak out.

 **-0-**

"Joseph," she paced in front of him, "Joseph I cannot make her do this."

He nodded but couldn't possibly voice his agreement. He didn't agree, frankly, but he knew that right now, he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't also tell her he'd watched Mia finding that ridiculous passage and hearing it anyway, that in itself was an unspeakable truth.

Clarisse was trembling, her hands shaking as she clasped them in front of her.

"I…I ask her," she stuttered, "I'm consigning her to…God, it's awful. I would be asking her to do what I done. Joseph, I cannot possibly! I cannot make her do this. She's only a young woman, she is only…"

He stood up then and blocked her treading path, gripped her shoulders, and set her down to perch on his desk.

"Look at me," he whispered, "Look at me."

She looked up, her face pale with worry.

"You will counsel her and Mia will make the decision that is best for her."

"I won't let her make a decision like that," she said suddenly, "Joseph, she has no idea."

He thought for a second and knew that his next words would be kindling to what was already becoming a fire.

"You can't tell her."

She looked at him, her eyes appalled, her mouth slack with incredulity.

"Are you joking?"

"Hear me out," he still held her shoulders, "She has to make this choice for herself. If you tell her that you regret it, if you make it sound like you regret it, you're already colouring her choice. Clarisse, she will be a wonderful queen-"

"You aren't serious," she muttered, "You can't be."

He swallowed, "I am. Clarisse, hear me out. Amelia has to make her own choice and it has to have nothing to do with _your_ experience."

"The experience that kept me from you?"

He felt her words as if they were a barb but he pressed forward, thinking only of how he had to protect what she'd worked for tirelessly. Thinking that he had to protect her from herself. From being honest, for the first time, about her marriage, to anyone but him.

"Yes. You didn't choose your arranged marriage, you were told you were getting married. A fundamental difference."

"It's the exact same Joseph," she threw up her hands in exasperation, "Why? Why are you so determined I don't?"

He pulled his hands away, "So you don't have to relive it. So that your final promise to him has a chance. So that Amelia gets to make the choice for herself, not for you. You know I am right. You have to be neutral."

She nodded, her teeth jutting out to bite her lip and force back tears, "I…"

"It's alright," he turned away, "I don't want to see her do something foolish but at least, at least she gets to choose."

There was silence.

"Do you know what I would have chosen, had I had the choice?"

He nodded and felt her wrapping her arm around his chest and pushing her face into his back.

"Of course I do."

"I don't want her to have to wait forever."

He nodded.

"Maybe we won't have to wait for much longer."

"Don't say that," she said softly, "It will only lead to disappointment."

Nearly a month later Joseph pulled on his sweats for the first time in a long while, his new sneakers, and wilfully ignored the burning pain in his knee. It was nearly dusk, the only time he got to run these days, and he only had an hour to do so before he was to meet with Clarisse to discuss the wedding plans one final time in the ballroom. It had been a frantic few weeks, in which he'd barely spoken to Clarisse and when he did it was always worries or panics or they'd be mid-way through conversation and she'd be so exhausted she'd nod off. Honestly, it was a relief to find himself doing something normal, something without stress.

He stood at the kitchen doors, stretching his legs out and grimacing at each ancient agony, when his daughter spoke behind him.

"Fancy a running partner Joe?"

She called him is name for the benefit of the nearby staff. And no matter now many times it happened, it hurt as equally as it had the first.

She'd taken to running in second year of medical school, looking for an outlet to clear her head she'd told him, and now it was as much a part of her routine as shifts at the hospital in Geneva and her new boyfriend, whom she'd only told him about at the garden party. He wanted to be jealous and exercise fatherly anger but the boy was a doctor, and clever and by all accounts sounded lovely. So he couldn't. In fact he was quietly happy – her life was settling into a pattern she was comfortable with and the addition of romantic love was an indicator that she felt ready to settle even more. She hadn't yet told her mother and he knew why. Clarisse took a lot of convincing, not least because she was afraid that Anna would be hurt eventually.

"Yes," he smiled, "Always. If you can keep up."

"I don't think that'll be an issue old man."

They took off, jogging in companionable silence.

"I started jogging when I got to this place," he muttered a while into their lap of the extensive grounds, "The gym was there but it was a shambles."

"It's fine now," she answered, "So why did you keep running?"

He smiled, "I used to run into the queen. I sometimes went running when I knew she was in the gardens."

Anna laughed, "Old romantic."

"Old desperate," he answered.

There was a pause then and he could practically hear her thoughts. He decided to pre-empt her questioning.

"She hasn't given me an answer yet."

Anna stopped to a slow jog and it made him slow beside her. He had confided in her that he was going to ask Clarisse to marry him once it became clear she would no longer be Queen Regent. It had been a desperate moment, something he was sure he regretted telling Anna now, but it had been a relief to share it with her too.

"Really?"

She looked angry all of a sudden.

"Anna, she's frightened," he said softly, "I have to accept that."

"No," Anna bit, "You don't. You really don't. Frightened of what?"

They were walking now and he motioned towards the walled rose garden in which Clarisse first pushed him away, all those years ago, when Anna had been a terrible, fresh secret. They settled on the bench beside the fountain and he tried to create the right words, the right tone, without sounding miserable.

"Lots of things," he whispered, "The press. The reaction. Mia needing her. This thing with Mabery and his foolish nephew. Going public."

"Excuses."

"No," he touched his daughter's knee, "Don't be angry with her for doing what she has always done. All she has ever known is fear, don't be angry at her for that."

"So what happens?"

She was asking the questions he dreaded and he was about to give the answer he dreaded in equal measure.

"Anna," he shook his head, "I'm too old for this and – and I am tired. Either way, I'll be resigning."

She was evidently shocked, "What?"

There were already tears forming in her eyes.

"Whether your mother agrees or not, I have to."

"But what about my mother? What happens?"

He nodded, knowing he'd been asking himself the self-same question for weeks now. What would become of them if they weren't them? What would that do to Anna, who had always harboured hope of their being together as fully as they could be?

"I will always be her friend," he paused, "I will always love her but I can't…if your mother doesn't want it now, she never will. And Anna, I can't make her change who she is. I don't want to change who she is. And who she is…she's the Queen, she always has been."

Anna swallowed a little then turned her head towards the flowers by her side. Her voice sounded far away.

"I'll speak with her."

"You will not," he ordered softly, "She has to be the one to make the choice."

Her silence indicated that she understood.

* * *

Ah, so back on form I felt. Did you enjoy it?


	36. Part 4 - Three

**Author's Note:** Thank you, thank you, for your reviews. We're nearing the end of this story (not much to go) and I hope you enjoy this chapter because I loved writing it, truly. I hope it does the story justice and I'd love to know if you think so. If you can, please leave a review. Otherwise I really hope you like it.

* * *

Anna tilted her head to the side and then towards Lily.

"Is she okay?"

Lily shrugged, "She's upset."

"So would I be, if I'd been played so blindingly," she muttered.

Anna thought of the beautiful wedding dress, hanging in preparation for the wedding in the morning, and thought about her mother and father for some bizarre reason. Her father had said nothing to her, absolutely nothing, but this morning she'd heard Olivia telling Priscilla he had handed in his resignation to the queen.

She didn't know what it meant but the fact her mother had retired early yesterday, and she'd seen a maid going to her room moments later with a bottle of wine, was not a good sign. In fact, it was a terrible sign.

"I want to kill Nicholas."

Anna nodded and snapped out of her own thoughts, "He isn't worth it. Trust me."

"Still, I could disembowel him while you read him the charges our own court has drawn against him."

"You have a very active imagination," Anna laughed.

"I just think the whole thing's barbaric, no offence to your country's great traditions or anything."

"You know, my mother had an arranged marriage," she said to Lily, "I don't think she was ever truly happy. Not really. No, I know she wasn't."

"So you think it's a bad idea for Mia to do it."

She shrugged, "I don't know. I just know that my mother wasn't happy and neither was my father."

At that moment Pierre came into the family sitting room. He'd disappeared an hour or so ago, and she knew he must have gone to the chapel to pray for guidance. Guidance for what, she wanted to ask, guidance from whom Pierre?

"She's with mother just now, and Andrew."

Anna nodded, "I think she's an idiot to do this."

"And you're entitled to your opinion Anna," he said softly, taking a coffee from the sideboard, "But she's made her choice."

"I am, yes," she answered snootily then lowered her eyes, "Sorry P."

"It's alright. We're all a bit tense," he touched her knee.

Lily stood then, sensing something unsaid, "I'm going to go and see if she needs me."

They both nodded and waited until the door closed. She could barely keep it in any longer.

"He handed his resignation in."

Her brother paused to look out into the gardens, then nodded.

"Will you speak to her, please?"

"No," he said softly, "No. I spoke to Joseph last night. He is determined about it and asking mama isn't a clever idea. They are dealing with too much right now in any case."

"I feel like I'm finding out all over again," she suddenly admitted, tears making her windpipe tight, "I feel like they lied to me for years again. I thought maybe she would say yes. Maybe she wanted to marry him."

He shook his head, "They didn't lie to you. The thing is, we'll never know the half of it, not really. Our timeline isn't theirs. Our understanding isn't the same as theirs."

He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

It doesn't look like it Anna and I am sorry."

She was grateful, at least, that her brother didn't lie.

She nodded and stared into her now cold tea, "Would you want them to be together?"

He laughed a little mirthless laugh, "More than I ever wanted my parents to be together, to be honest."

"Ouch," she muttered, "That's a sore indictment."

"I love your father," he whispered, "And I am grateful that he kept her afloat through most of my childhood. That he loved my brother and I as we needed to be loved and looked after. Anna, I knew from the moment you were born that you weren't Rupert's and I was pleased. I was pleased she'd done something stupid, something wild. It made me have hope for her. Sin or not, it saved her."

Anna laughed at his bringing it round to faith, "But infidelity _is_ a sin."

"One that Rupert committed long before Clarisse."

"That's very Old Testament of you," she said darkly.

He pulled her towards him, "Listen, Anna. Whatever happens they'll love you. They will always love you."

"I know that. I just want them to love each other."

 **-0-**

The vestibule at the back of the church was surprisingly sound proof, setting aside the noise of a country clamouring for a public celebration. She was standing facing him, about to watch her granddaughter marry a man she did not love and watch the man she loved walk off forever. Yet he couldn't bring himself to comfort her or to tell her that her choice not to recognise their love publicly was the sorest thing she could have done. He was so tired, so tired of the lies and the secrecy. He had tendered his resignation after her gentle, but cowardly, rejection. And now he stood on a precipice of something totally unknown. He hadn't had the guts to tell Anna. He couldn't bear to imagine the disappointment on her face.

"I cannot convince you to stay, can I?"

She clutched her gloves to her chest and toyed with the silk and he could see terror in her face.

"I've stayed for a very long time," he traced his fingers over the lead strips of the ancient glass, "I cannot stay any more my darling, despite how much I want to."

"You promised me you would never leave," she fell listlessly against the chair.

"Why now?" He turned to her, trying to supress his anger from rearing up into his mouth, "Why not two days ago, when my resignation landed on your desk?"

"Because I was hurt."

He nodded and laughed darkly, " _You_ were hurt. I've written that letter time and time again. Every time I never handed it to you because I couldn't because it hurt so bloody much. Never once have I made you consider my feelings, because my feelings have always been second to yours. The relief I felt when I finally got the courage to do it…"

She recoiled from the pain in his words but it hit her square in the chest anyway, leaving her breathless. He could see it in her eyes as the light went out, the last fragment of hope.

"Clarisse," he looked into the coloured light, "It's my last letter, ever. It's the last correspondence, the last kiss, the last vow, the last hope all rolled into one. It's the last part of me I can give to our secret without breaking."

He turned to go but was stalled by her whisper, "What about Anna?"

He couldn't look at her. He was too frightened her beauty would make him take it back.

"I've already told her we didn't make it. All this for a garden of earth…?" His voice caught, "You were worth every moment of pain, every lie. You always will be. Don't think I don't love you Clarisse but I can't love lies any more. She knows we didn't make it. I think that's the saddest thing of all; we didn't make it in the end."

She said nothing but he heard her whimpering tears as he closed the door on her and on a secret he'd held to himself for over thirty years.

 **-0-**

Anna watched her mother's trembling hands, older than they once were, but gripping her father's as if it'd never been a sin, as if it had never been wrong.

And it hadn't been wrong, she was sure of that.

Their wedding rings glittered above everything, above the applause of the congregation, above the shock of their gentle kiss, above their shy laughter as they exchanged vows they'd lived by for a very long time.

For better and for far worse.

Pierre beamed at her from the altar – a makeshift best man - and she wondered what it must look like, from their perspective. Was there shock in the congregation or happiness? Pierre winked too and took their mother's hand. She wanted to go up there but she knew she couldn't. Anna knew she'd always have to be a secret, or at least her beginning would need to be. But she understood and she could live with that. She had found ways to navigate it and she would continue to.

"Finally," she found herself repeating in a whisper.

"What?" Helen asked.

"Oh nothing," she turned to her niece's mother, "Do you have a tissue?"

Helen pulled a clean tissue from her bag and offered her it.

"Are you alright?"

"Mmm," she swiped tears away, "Just happy."

"It's lovely," Helen agreed, nursing a fussing Trevor.

"It is."

The church cleared quickly, the press amongst the congregation going to file the most sensational story in the history of Renaldi rule, those who approved heading to the palace for the celebrations originally intended for Andrew and Amelia, and those who disapproved skulking off to mourn the state of their monarchy and their old whore of a queen.

A reaction that had to happen, Anna knew, but one she was never going to like.

She waited until the church was clear and sank down to her knees on the pew and prayed to the God she knew had to be somewhere. The God who had granted them a second chance at something.

"Lady Anna," Charlotte was beside her a few minutes later, "Obviously the plans have changed quite dramatically-"

"But look at your grin Charlotte!"

The assistant laughed, "Oh! It's wonderful. Please, your car is waiting. The princess has insisted on travelling in the limo with yourself and Father Pierre and has given the Queen and Joseph the carriage."

Anna stood up, "He'll love that."

Charlotte laughed and led her out to the waiting car.

Amelia's dress was balled up between her legs and her veil was discarded on the facing seat of the limo. She edged towards the partition gracelessly as Anna climbed in, falling over and forcing Anna to catch her.

"Lars, I can't go to the front like this, could you please drop us at the kitchen. Anyway, I want Grandma and Joe to get all the attention."

Pierre laughed as she sat back, "That's one thing they don't want."

Anna was still quiet, scarcely able to believe what she'd seen just minutes ago. Her fingers still shook, settling nervously on her pretty clutch bag.

"Anna, are you alright?"

She looked at her brother, her mouth hanging open, and nodded.

"Shut your mouth princess," he muttered kindly, tipping his finger up against her chin, "Your prayers have been answered."

Amelia looked at her then Pierre, realisation alighting on her face.

"You wanted them to…," Amelia mused, "I mean, I did too. That's why I told her she deserved her fairy-tale ending but I didn't think…well, I suppose it's obvious they love each other. Isn't it wonderful? I think they've been in love for years, don't you? I mean it's patently obvious, wouldn't you say?"

Pierre slid the partition up, effectively shutting the three of them off from the drivers in front.

"Anna has a vested interest," he said slowly and Anna could feel his eyes assessing her reaction.

She shook her head.

"Tell her. She should know."

"Know what?"

Amelia sounded alarmed. It wasn't fair to do that, not when she had just experienced the biggest wash of relief she'd ever felt, Anna imagined.

"It doesn't matter," Anna said feebly, tears threatening her.

"It does," Pierre leaned forward to touch her shoulder, "Why not? Why not? You know it's the right time."

"It's not my secret to tell."

He laughed gently, "Of course it is."

"Could you cut the cryptic stuff? I think I know what you're going to say anyway!"

Amelia was clearly exasperated, tossing her hands up in the air.

"You can never say it," Pierre turned to their niece and Anna watched, "You can never tell anyone you know."

Amelia held up her hand, "Oh my goodness I swear! And I bet I already know."

There was a pause then and Anna felt it building in her chest, rearing up into her throat as a powerful and unstoppable catharsis.

"Joseph is my father."

Amelia looked dumb for a moment, then she smiled and nodded and a laugh bubbled from her throat.

"Oh that? Ha! Well you _must_ be delighted auntie Anna," she grinned.

"That's all you have to say?"

After a terrible pause Mia shrugged, "I don't need to know their terrible little secrets to know they love each other or that they love us. Grandma taught me life was more complex than I could ever have imagined when she rolled up and told me I was a princess in that godforsaken garden at fifteen. It doesn't matter who made you, but _who_ they chose to make you. We're all okay. And anyway, I always had an inkling. You're Joseph's double, after all."

"You're not angry?"

"You can't be angry about the past, it wastes time."

She was so floored by her niece's simplistic wisdom that she couldn't scrape the words together to show her gratitude. She just nodded and felt tears begin to fall.

* * *

So? Please, be brutal in your feedback. I really hope you like it.


	37. Part 4- Four

**Author's note:** Thank you so very much for the reviews on the previous chapter. We're rounding up now, with a few chapters to go. Please review if you have time, but enjoy most importantly.

* * *

There was nothing that could be said, nothing that could pass between then that had not already gone before. There was no space left for words. The only sound was their breathing, slow and steady, in the carriage.

"I didn't think anyone would ever ask me to marry them," he said wryly.

The tension, which was so bizarrely there, evaporated with his comment. He laughed and she laughed with him. He reached for her hand across the stretch of leather. The streets were packed with well-wishers who turned out for one wedding and ended up with another. They were lined in one against the other, barriers holding them back. There was no issue with their queen's choice then or, at least, he hoped.

"Especially not the Queen," she answered.

"Most especially not my boss," he waved to the crowds and turned to her, "Clarisse you have to wave."

"Oh," she lifted her hand, "Of course."

She eyed him for a moment as she did so, "You're technique is questionable," she continued, "If you keep that up I'll need to give you consort lessons."

He dropped his hand to check his watch, "You've been my wife – how glorious it is to say that – for all of twenty minutes and you've already titled me and planned my lessons."

"Of course," she responded, "I rather think that I will title you a Duke."

He laughed.

She looked at him seriously, dropping her hand from her wave for just a moment, "I have had a lot of time to think of this."

He nodded, "Of course," he smiled, inclining his head, "But I don't need a title. I can't quite believe I get to have you."

"Yes," she nodded and lowered her voice, "You do get to have me. And God knows, you've waited long enough."

"It has been worth it," he answered seriously, "I mean that. Clarisse?"

"Mmmm?"

He stalled a moment then asked, "What made you change your mind?"

She looked pensive for a second, "I wish it were more complicated than I love you. It isn't. And I realised I couldn't let that go. Joseph, I would have been a fool to let you go and a year from now, I would have followed you. I think I've learned that, from our rather…chequered past. "

He felt the smile on his face grow wider at her understatement.

The crowds of well-wishers were beginning to thin and as the horses began to mount the incline that led out of the city and twisted upwards towards the palace, the noise died down somewhat. He stole a look at her and finally allowed himself to believe it. She smiled and leaning in, placed a chaste kiss on his lips.

They were nearing the palace now, and an impromptu guard of staff were gathered along the wide drive and were cheering and welcoming them. His wife's, how alien that sounded, face grew red as her loyal staff welcomed them with cheers and well-wishes. At the top of the stairs Mia and Charlotte and Pierre waited, all with rather bright smiles. And right beside them was Anna, her smile widest of all.

As was his habit, he got out before her and offered her his hand. She smiled her thanks as Shades jumped down from behind the carriage. Shades leaned in towards him.

"Congratulations boss," he whispered.

"Thanks Shades," he patted the other man's shoulder momentarily, before leading his wife up the stairs and towards his family.

 **-0-**

"Charlotte," Anna stopped the other woman, who was thundering so resolutely across the dining room that she was frightened she might wear her pretty heels out, "Charlotte can I help?"

Charlotte, looking less than composed, stared as if she were speaking another language.

"Oh Lady Anna, no," Charlotte began to replace the wedding stationary and napkins as she spoke, swapping the Mia and Andrew accessories for the newly, hastily printed, _H.R.H C.R. & Col. J.R._ that had just come hot from the printer, who'd looked rather pleased with his unexpected and huge stipend.

"You need help," Anna kicked off her heels and began replacing the place-settings too.

"Imagine," Charlotte sighed, "It had been a proper wedding breakfast for all the thousand guests. Thank goodness I had time to prepare for tonight."

"Charlotte, you've done a tremendous job," she smiled, stalling the other woman with a hand, "You need to relax."

"Hey," Mia appeared at the door, "Can I help?"

In between arriving at the palace and photographs she had swapped her wedding dress for a much more appropriate cocktail one and had yet to change for tonight's festivities. There were to be two receptions; a more public one in the afternoon and a private one in the evening. The afternoon one over, the evening one seemed more to be welcomed than endured.

Anna held out a napkin, "Always."

Later they were watching from the foyer windows, all three of them, as the guests for the far more intimate evening reception filled in. As Mia had envisioned it, with Anna's mother's help of course, it was a much more private affair. As it stood, right now, it was far different too. The guest list had been altered remarkably to suit the newly married couple, in the space of a few hours there were less dignitaries and more friends.

"Oh!" Mia suddenly exclaimed.

Pierre gave her a sideways glance, "What's wrong?"

"The first dance," she shook her head, "The first dance."

Anna was puzzled for a moment, "Oh right, the song?"

"Right, it's the one I wanted not the one…" Mia suddenly looked confused, "What would they want?"

"Let's find Charlotte," Anna nodded, "She'll have an idea."

They found Charlotte in the dining room, where they imagined she would be, and she was giving the instructions to the wait staff for the dinner. The dining room had been set for two hundred people, most of whom now waited in the ballroom.

"Your Highness, Lady Anna," she looked around, "Look alright?"

"Glorious Charlotte," Mia answered, "Charlotte, we've thought of a tiny glitch. The first dance…"

Charlotte's face paled and Anna felt immediately sorry for her.

"Ohhh," she groaned, "What will we do?"

"We'll just swap it in for something they would like," Mia suggested feebly.

Then Charlotte's head snapped up, "What's the name of that…? Ugh."

"What?"

"The…it's the one with the slow," Charlotte turned to Mia, "Oh, the one you learned in the consulate. You know?"

Mia laughed, "The wango?"

"What on earth is that?"

Anna asked only to find that the answer had been obviously the right one.

"It's the Genovian one…," Mia pulled Anna into a dancing position, taking the role of the man.

"Oh, the tango one?" Anna detached herself, "Why that one Charlotte?"

Charlottle smiled, "Just trust me."

* * *

 **So, an unnecessary filler chapter but I couldn't resist! Please review if you can.**


	38. Part 4 - Five

**Author's note:** Thank you, ever so kindly, for all the reviews on the previous chapter. I hope this one is a satisfying read.

* * *

That night they lay in the hot, quiet sheets of her bed. There were fresh rose petals, flipped urgently from the covers, still lingering in some places. She had her suspicions as to who the culprits of such clichéd romance had been and, in fact, she lamented whatever beautiful roses had been sacrificed at Mia and Anna's hands to carry it out. He'd gone via the cellars and brought a bottle of brandy, perching atop his change of clothes for the morning. She wanted to tell him he'd need to move his things in, they'd need to make space for him, he'd need to be titled eventually.

But she found words were boring and inadequate. Actions were better. There had been so many words, over so many years.

She took a sip of the brandy and lay down again.

He scooped her against his body, his skin clammy with exertion and heat, and wrapped a tight arm around her middle.

His mouth was lazily nibbling on her shoulder, his tongue was quietly threatening her with the most delicious things now and then, and his mind was at peace.

She could feel it.

Below them, in the ballroom, the clean-up was already underway. They were already sweeping away the remnants of a day forty years too late for her, but wonderful for that fact it had happened at all.

"I wrote a list once," he kissed her neck, "Of all the things I loved about you."

She smiled wanly and nodded, "You told me."

"It went to five pages…both sides."

She laughed, "Where did you find the time?"

"You were paying me," he smiled and peeled a rose petal from her abdomen, "It was on your time."

"Lazy," she shivered as his fingers ghosted over the skin of her ribs.

"You like that?"

"Yes," she admitted, hardly thinking to be shy.

"Do you remember when I told you I wanted you to tell me what you enjoyed?"

"Mmmm, yes."

"The look on your face - scandalized."

"You enjoy embarrassing me husband, don't' you?"

He laughed, "Yes wife. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Very," she nodded, "Very wonderful. Joseph?"

"Clarisse?"

"I am sorry."

She waited for his rebuke. He pulled her tighter to him though, burying his face in her hair. Once she would have found this odd but she realised it offered him some comfort and it was romantic to her, in its way.

"Let's say it once more. Once more for everything, for everything we ever did that hurt each other, and then let's…"

"Release it?"

He nodded.

"I am sorry, Clarisse, too."

They were silent then, their older bodies as well attuned as their younger ones had been, understanding what was needed was time to stop being a secret.

"We can never let her tell the world," she said sadly.

"She doesn't want to," he assured, reaching for his own brandy glass, "She just wants us…she wants us to be like this."

"Well am I not glad she doesn't demand much?" Clarisse laughed.

"She is your daughter," he turned her round and she couldn't resist running her fingers over his goatee.

"Counting greys?"

"Reminiscing," she smiled, "And I do love your beard."

He grinned boyishly, "Do you?"

"Mmmm, I might write a list."

"Double sided?"

"Double sided," she assured.

He urged her on top of him then, pulling her face towards his for a kiss. She kissed his chin, his jaw, his mouth.

"Joseph?"

It came out more as a gasp than as a question.

"Mhhmmm, darling?"

"I want to go to Madrid for our honeymoon."

He seemed a little distracted.

"Alright."

* * *

Happy ending? One more chapter then we're done.


	39. Epilogue

**Author's note:** So, we come to the end of what has been, by far, one of my most favourite stories I've ever embarked on. If you have any energy left for it, one final review would be incredible.

I have to thank you, all of you, who have stayed with it despite the moments where it irritated your or annoyed you, and have read and reviewed faithfully. For those guest reviewers who don't sign in, thank you to you too. I'm honoured you read what I write.

 **Wild Mei Ling** , thanks for all the laughs, criticism and encouragement you regularly throw my way and for helping me iron out the kinks in the story.

Thanks again. It's been tremendous fun.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

It took a while to get there, over a year and a half in fact, but they managed it between coronations and schedules and Anna's wedding - where she asked her step-father, much to the appreciation of the small congregation in the Spanish church and the world's press, to walk her down the aisle. Clarisse had wondered what was in the wooden box he'd given her on the morning of her wedding but when she'd peeked inside to see a plethora of papers and colours she understood.

It was spring when they got to Madrid, and Maria had put new sheets on the bed and left the receipt for Joseph.

Clarisse wore white and sunglasses, he wore jeans and a black blazer and they visited the Museo Del Prado.

"The world went on without us for four days," she clutched his fingers just a little tighter, "But it was so different afterwards."

"It did and it was," he led her through the halls, an unspoken understanding of where they were headed between them.

They came to stand before the triptych, as vivid as it had been when they were so much younger, so much more selfish. It hadn't changed but neither of them felt it necessary to point that out. The garden was the same, the colour was the same, and hell was the same.

"We changed…a lot," she said, as if it needed to be said.

"I think we were punished enough too."

She nodded and, turning from him, settled on the bench across from the painting.

"I know a lovely tapas restaurant," he sat down beside her and took her hand, "And I have a tiny apartment where you can get lost in your own garden of earthly delights. I might even take you dancing if the notion takes me. What do you think Your Majesty, Clarisse, Senora Romerro?"

She smiled a crooked smile, "Sounds lovely."

He smiled too then and, taking her by the hand, led her away.


End file.
